Dear Professor Xavier
by Gevaisa
Summary: A POTO Xmen Marvel crossover, set in 1888 to 1889.  The role of Miss Daae in this fan fic will be played by Kitty Pryde AKA Shadowcat. Real world themes & issues, such as anti Semitism
1. Who, What, When, Where, and Why

**Dear Professor Xavier:**

An explanation is probably in order.

If Neil Gaiman can write the wonderful **Marvel 1602**, which sets the Marvel universe and the X- Men in the Elizabethan era, then this can be a POTO-X-Men/Marvel crossover. It's not a time-travel story; it's an alternative universe. It's not taking place before or after the events of the Gaston Leroux book or the ALW musical or movie, but instead of them.

Once that has been established, Erik is obviously a mutant, which handily explains why he can look like Gerard Butler's Phantom and still have such trouble with people—he has fearsome powers and abilities, which I will not explain right now.

The role of Miss Daaé in this fan fic will be played by Katherine (Kitty) Pryde, AKA Shadowcat, sometime of the X-Men. Why? I looked at the Elle magazine with Emmy Rossum, and thought "In these photos, she looks like I always imagined Kitty Pryde would look. . ."

The Marvel Universe online says of Kitty that she is 5"6" tall, weighs 110 lbs, has brown hair and hazel eyes. She is a genius with computers, has been studying ballet for many years, and was trained to fight by Logan, AKA Wolverine. She's Jewish.

Her mutant power is the ability to phase, or make herself, other people, and objects insubstantial. As a result, she can walk through walls, just like a…ghost.

She's usually written as having a lively sense of humor, a well developed sense of right and wrong, and she's certainly used to people who are a bit different. Since computers don't yet exist when this story takes place, in the later part of 1888 through the first six months of 1889, Kitty will have to have an aptitude for math instead.

Nothing has ever been said about her singing voice, but she does tend to like older men. In the Marvel Universe, she's about 18.

There is anti-Semitism in this story. This reflects reality The Holocaust is coming for the Jews of Europe, and it is less than fifty years away. If anything, my treatment of itis mild.

The obligatory disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters; I just like to play with them. The dialog is mostly mine, however.

Rating PG-13, because:

A: of some language, and

B: the heroine is Jewish and will encounter anti-Semitism,

One last detail—this fic will be taking place in the epistolary, or letter form. That's what the Voices in my head wanted. I just write it down...

* * *

Cast of Non-POTO Characters:

Katherine (Kitty) Pryde: A heroine. Usually kick-ass, currently heartbroken.

Peter Rasputin (Colossus): The heartbreaker. Never formally engaged to Kitty, they had an Understanding that they would be married once she turned 18. He ceased to Understand. She doesn't understand.

Professor Sir Charles Xavier: A teacher, a telepath, and a mentor. Owns a large estate in Yorkshire. Very rich, but would be much richer if he were not so good. Takes in and trains young Evolved (the 19th century term for mutants) at his own expense.

Sir Erich Magnus Lensherr (Magneto), Baron Ware. An extremely wealthy Jewish banker, ennobled for loaning very large sums of money to the Crown. No relation _whatsoever_ to anybody named Erik; the name is a coincidence. Doesn't really approve of anybody who isn't Evolved, or Jewish, preferably both. Kitty is both; he is as fond of her as if she were his daughter. Has phenomenal magnetic powers and is slightly telepathic as well. Banker to Messrs. Andre and Firmin.

Auroré Munro (Storm): Renamed because the Black Pride movement is a century in the future. An older sister figure to Kitty. Lives on and teaches on the Xavier estate. Has weather powers.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler): Looks like a very handsome, furry, blue demon, acts like a Pirate King. Can teleport from place to place, and is a superb acrobat. Used to make Kitty uneasy because of his appearance, but his irresistible good nature won her over, and he is now like an elder brother to her. German-born; former circus performer. Also lives on and teaches on the Xavier estate.

Illyana Rasputin: Best friend to Kitty, former roommate, younger sister to Peter Rasputin. Confidant to all the juicy bits Kitty wouldn't dare tell the Professor or even tell Auroré and Kurt. Lives in and is a student in the Xavier school.

Logan (Wolverine): Trained Kitty in the Martial Arts. Like an uncle to her. Currently residing in Japan because Jean Grey married Scott Summers, and broke his (Logan's) heart. All-around tough guy who looks more like Tommy Lee Jones than like Hugh Jackman. Known for the wretchedly bad quality of his singing voice.

Lord Warren W. Worthington III, Earl of Worthing. (Angel) Blond, blue eyed, and as beautiful a man as was ever born, Lord Worthing is the heir to a fortune and title as well. Under his clothes he has a secret: a pair of angelic, white-feathered wings. He can fly. Currently doing the Grand Tour of Europe because Jean Grey….see above. Most obviously Raoul-like character, but you never know.

Alice Blaire (Dazzler): Name changed from Alison to Alice to be in keeping with the period. Has red-gold hair, blue eyes, and a beautiful singing voice. Can convert sound waves into light. A talented singer, actress, and dancer, she is moderately famous as a star of operettas like those of Gilbert and Sullivan. Rather more experienced and worldly than Kitty, and able to offer very good and practical advice on matters Professor Xavier would not approve of.

* * *

Why Katherine Pryde Went to Audition for the Paris Opera Ballet

Excerpt of a letter:

From: Peter Rasputin, Iznik, Turkey.

To: Katherine Pryde, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.

Dear Katya:

I cannot soften this news in any manner. I must tell you plainly. Please forgive me. I have married another. From the moment I saw her, I could not help but love her…..

* * *

Excerpt of a Letter:

From: Sir Erich Lensherr, Baron Ware, Warefield, Devonshire, England.

To: Peter Rasputin, Iznik, Turkey.

Charles Xavier is too soft hearted to say this, so I must. Your behavior toward Katherine Pryde was disgraceful and dishonorable. I am not so old that I cannot deal with you as you deserve….

* * *

Excerpt:

From: Sir Charles Xavier, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.

To: Peter Rasputin, Iznik, Turkey.

We cannot command our hearts, but we can rule our actions. If you found you could not love Kitty as you should love your wife, it would have been wrong to marry her. Yet to marry a stranger on three days acquaintance, one with whom you have no language in common?

I am hurt and disappointed, Peter.

I had thought better of you.

* * *

Excerpt:

From Charles Xavier to Erich Lensherr:

Kitty puts on a brave front in company, but she wanders around the school like a forlorn ghost when she thinks no one is watching…

* * *

Excerpt:

From Erich Lensherr to Charles Xavier:

I have an idea as regards our heartbroken Katherine. A change of scene will do her good. I have connections in Paris…

* * *

Letter from Katherine Pryde to Peter Rasputin:

Dear Peter:

I cannot forgive you, for there is nothing to forgive. I was only thirteen when we met, and you were so kind to me that I could not help but become attached to you. It was unrealistic for anyone to expect that bond to last five years, much less result in our marriage. I wish you happy with a whole heart.

Your letters will be here in Xavier House whenever you should return. I hope you will keep those I have sent you, as well as any presents I have ever given you. I think it would be better if you didn't write to me again, at least not for a while.

Anyway, I will not be here. I am going to Paris. I have a letter of introduction to the managers of the Opera Populaire. I will be auditioning for the Opera Ballet corps. I have been studying ballet since I was a child; now I'll have the chance to prove I truly am a dancer.

I won't say good-bye, because of course we are still friends. I hope you and your new bride will be very happy—as happy as you could ever hope to be.

Sincerely,

Katherine Pryde

* * *

Excerpt from Erich Lensherr to Charles Xavier:

Kitty is a sensible girl, and between her common sense, her powers, and her fighting skills, I'm sure she'll be almost as safe in the Paris Opera as in your school. Her stay there is not likely to be of long duration in any event. A professional dancer's life is harder than she can guess, and she will be lonely and homesick as well. She has never had to budget her own living expenses, either. She will return when she runs out of money, if not before.

* * *

Excerpt from Charles Xavier to Erich Lensherr:

You are very likely right, but Kitty may surprise us all.


	2. Auditioning and Meeting the Opera Ghost

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Hotel de, Paris, France, to Auroré Munro, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.

Dear Auroré;

I am here in Paris, in my hotel, but tomorrow I will be hunting for lodgings, because…I passed the audition! I had nothing interesting to write to you before—just traveling, and checking in. I am having no trouble at all getting along in French. Professor Xavier's telepathic lessons completed what my conventional French lessons began.

But I must tell you all about today. I arrived bright and early with my letter of introduction in my hand and my dance shoes and practice clothes in my carpetbag. You will have to imagine me in the Managers' office. in a chair, on one side of a wide desk that was polished to a glassy shine, and two mustachioed Opera managers on the other side of it, poring over my letter. Sir Erich's letter was powerful enough to allow me to bypass a lot of hurdles that stand in the way of most ballet hopefuls, but it only got me in the door, so to speak. If I am to stay, it will have to be on my own merits. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Back to the managers. One is named André and the other is Firmin. One of them is short and the other is tall. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out which name applies to which man. I suppose I'll have to learn, and learn soon. They glanced up from the letter to give me the once-over. I could read their minds as clearly as if I were Professor Xavier—they were thinking, "Do you suppose she's Sir Erich's mistress?"

I wondered for a moment if they'd be more likely, or less likely, to give me an audition if that were the case. I don't think I could have carried off _that_ pretence convincingly, so I sat there and tried to look as graceful as I could.

"How long have you been studying dance, M'mselle Pryde?" asked the shorter one. His tone was so patronizing that I wanted to kick him. I remembered I had on my nice new kid boots, and controlled myself.

"Since I was four, m'sieu." I answered.

"Yet you have never danced professionally. You've never even auditioned before?"

"No, m'sieu." I gave him the reason. "When I was thirteen—well, for some years, it was thought that I would be marrying—." My throat closed up. I did not cry again, Auroré, I swallowed it. I was being good.

"This marriage would have precluded your career as a dancer?" asked the taller.

I nodded.

"And you are now—how old?"

"Seventeen. Almost eighteen."

"So, you have come to us. May I ask—," he rubbed his chin. "Why Paris and not London? Or, for that matter, America? This does say you were born in America."

"I've lived in England for several years, and I went to school there. I wanted to make a change."

The managers exchanged looks. "I see", said the shorter. "How is it that you know Sir Erich?"

"He is a patron of the school I went to. Besides that, he knows—knew—my grandfather, before my family emigrated to America."

"Ah." The 'Is she his mistress?' look went away. One of them tugged on a bell pull. An office boy answered. "Ask Madame Giry if she will join us."

A few minutes later, the most alarmingly Parisian woman I have ever seen came in. She was wearing a very smartly cut black dress, and her strawberry-blonde hair was elegantly dressed in a chignon. (I'm not sure the color wasn't 'aided', though!)

"Madam Giry. This is Mademoiselle Katherine Pryde, who has been recommended to us by Baron Ware." said the taller.

"And who is Baron Ware, that he should be making recommendations?"

"Ahh—He's our banker."

"I see!" She made it sound as if they were caught sneaking candy before supper, while she looked me over. Her eyebrows went up. I was wearing my navy blue dress, which may look very sharp in a Yorkshire village, but which in Paris looks about five years out of date, if not more. At least I had the dignity of full length skirts. If I were still wearing school-girl-short skirts, I think I would have shriveled up.

"Indeed?" she asked, of no one in particular. "Stand up and walk for me, child. To the door and back."

I did.

"Now make a révérence, as though to an audience."

I obeyed.

"Yes. I will see her audition. Follow me," she commanded, and so I followed her out of the office, down the corridor, and then through a door to a flight of utilitarian stairs. I was being let behind the scenes, into the parts of the Opera house that are like petticoats and crinolines and such are to an outfit—not what shows to the public, but is absolutely necessary all the same. It was full of odd bits and pieces, (some of them human), theater infrastructure, scenery and machinery. She led me to the ballet corps' changing room, where I put on my practice clothes under the interested side glances of a dozen other girls.

Then I went with Madame Giry into a sort of public practice hall, with mirrored walls, where the opera–going gentlemen could ogle the girls as they were put through their paces. I saw the two managers immediately—they were going to watch.

Madame Giry began by drilling me on the basics, once I'd stretched and warmed up. "Position One!" she thumped her cane. "Position Two! Now plié—." And so on. Then a tired looking pianist played "Titania's Dance" from Berlioz's Midsummer Night's Dream, and I danced as Mme. Giry called the figures. Only half-a-dozen people were present when I began, but more trickled in as my audition went along.

And now I must confess. I did something the Professor might not approve of. Please don't scold, Auroré. Please don't tell, either.

I used my powers during the audition. I can make myself insubstantial enough to walk on air—or dance on it. I used it very selectively—I made my grand jetés last a second longer, made my penchés that much deeper, accomplished an extra crossing or two during the entrechat. I did not cheat. I performed to the best of my physical abilities—and then went a little bit further. I am good. I wasn't covering up my deficiencies, but displaying my capabilities, and not to their fullest, either. I was careful not to do the impossible—just the improbable.

The room had filled in around the edges by the time Mme. Giry said "Stop!" The music stopped. I stopped. Everyone in the room stopped talking. That woman has _presence_! She made a thoughtful sound, then requested, "Another grand jeté, if you please."

I leapt again, phasing so that I hung in the air a split second longer than I would otherwise have done.

"Very prettily done," commented the shorter manager.

"Yes, very graceful," agreed the taller.

"No!" said Madame Giry. "Not 'very pretty'. Not 'very graceful'. Remarkable. Almost—extraordinary. And I am not easily impressed. Which is not to say that there is not ample room for improvement. Perform another entrechat, Mademoiselle."

I did.

"Yes—," she drew out the word. "You are accepted, Katherine Pryde." It seemed as if the whole room had been holding its breath, and let it out all at once. A few people even clapped. For the most part, they just went back to whatever they had been doing. Which was for the best—I don't want to stand out as a freak of any kind, even if I might be freakishly good.

After that, the rest of my day was spent touring the Opera house and getting introduced and measured and told what the rules and regulations are and when payday is (and which of the stagehands to avoid—apparently I should never let Joseph Buquet back me into a corner—not that _I_ couldn't fight him off even then!) Madame Giry has a daughter in the ballet corps, and her name—her daughter's name, that is, is Meg. She seems nice. I think she's not quite part of the group_ because_ her mother is the ballet mistress. The rest seem a little empty-headed to me, but I don't really know them yet.

Agnes Sorelli is the prima ballerina, I learned, and Carlotta Guidicelli is the prima donna. And I learned a lot of other names as well—it will take me some time to sort them all out.

Oh, and this is funny—the Opera has a resident ghost. There's a role I could really understudy. When it comes to walking through walls, who could be more qualified than me?

Also, please find enclosed a snippet of ribbon. It's for Illyana. I have found out for her what color eau de Nil is, and that's it. It is, as you can see, a beautiful light blue-green, and not mud colored at all. I don't know why they call that shade "Nile Water" when every time I ever saw the Nile, it was thick with mud.

I will finish this letter here, and post it. Please share it with Kurt, and tell him the next one will be for him.

With love to all, from

Your Kitten (purr!)

Ps... Should you hear from Peter, will you let me know how he is? Please. I need to hear about him, now and then.

* * *

Letter from Katherine Pryde, 117 Rue de la , Paris, France, to Kurt Wagner, Xavier House.

Dear Kurt;

Well, Fuzzy-Elf, I have been in the Ballet corps less than a week, and already I am getting into trouble. Not that I was the one who started it! I'm sure this comes as no surprise to you.

The Opera house is haunted, you see, by a very unghostly phantom who insists that the Opera Populaire is _his_, in the physical, artistic and metaphoric senses of the word. Because of this, he harasses everybody—beginning with those who don't give performances to his liking. (I'm not sure what I mean by the metaphoric sense, but it sounds good.)

He starts by sending notes, and escalates to pranks, which get increasingly serious if his advice is ignored. He also praises people who _do_ give performances he approves of, with notes, and sometimes flowers or chocolates, if he thinks the performance has been truly exceptional.

He continually plagues the management with messages about how operas are to be cast and staged, and annoys the maintenance staff by informing them that a trapdoor needs repair or that a flywheel needs replacing. He helps himself to whatever he wants around the entire building, and no one can do a thing about it.

He also terrorizes the Ballet corps—with the exception of yours truly! I think that's more of a hobby for him, because it's too easy to do. It's not _real_ work.

In exchange for these valuable services, he extorts—I mean, asks for—only 20,000 francs a month! And Box Five. Box Five is one of the expensive boxes on the main tier. If he does not get both, he sulks and makes trouble. The managers are almost as new as I am, and thus far have refused to pay him.

As a result, he has dropped scenery, jammed a row of foot lights so the gas won't flow, broken a treadmill, swiped three cases of vintage champagne, and escalated his note-sending to the point where his envelopes with red seals drift about like autumn leaves. Monsieur André even found one tucked in his inner pocket—while he was wearing the jacket!

Of course this ghost is no ghost, any more than I am, or he would need neither francs nor champagne. The ghost is flesh and blood, and… but I am getting ahead of myself. I have to tell you about MY encounter with the Opera Ghost, before I tell you my deductions about him.

I was accepted into the Ballet corps, but I soon found out that I wasn't really one of them—and couldn't be, until I was initiated. Two days after I started, during a post-practice cool-down, Cecilé pretty, silly, and nervous, said, "But Kitty hasn't written her name on the wall yet!"

"Oh, that's right!" and, "She hasn't!"— chimed in a couple of the others, with glee, as we filed in to the dressing room and bent over to undo our slippers and change our clothes.

"What wall?" I asked as I untied a difficult knot.

"The far wall of the big storage room in the second sub-basement!"

"Why do I need to do that?" I straightened, and reached for my street clothes.

"To be one of us!"

"You're not really one of us until you do—."

"Come on! I've got the chalk."

They pushed and pulled and coaxed me out the door and down the stairs to the landing on the second sub-basement level, where one girl produced a battered candelabrum with three half-burnt candles in it. Another girl pulled out a box of matches, and lit the candles with all the solemnity of a ritual. Cecile pressed the candle holder into my left hand, while another girl gave me a lump of chalk and the box of matches to hold in my other hand. "In case your candles go out." she told me.

"What do I have to do?" I wanted to be part of the group, but not at the cost of losing my place in the corps or breaking a bone.

"Just walk across to the far side and write your name—even your initials will do—on the far wall. One of us will go to the landing on the other side, so she'll witness for us."

"Then you have to walk back and come out this side. All. By. Your. Self." emphasized Janine.

"With just the candles to light your way." finished Cecile.

"Why is this such a big deal? Would we get fired if I get caught?"

"Oh, no. Nobody'd care." answered Meg.

"It's the ghost, you see. He haunts the whole Opera House, but especially down here." continued Janine.

"He might blow out your candles—," interjected Marie.

_It could be some draft that blows them out_, I thought cynically.

"He might speak to you."

"Or try to kill you!"

"You might even see him!"

"What does he look like?" I asked, and they fell all over themselves to tell me.

"He hasn't got a nose—."

"slimy grey dripping—,"

"writhing—,"

I was overloaded with outrageous and repulsive descriptions, and there were far too many of them. "Come on!" I pleaded. "Some of you are contradicting yourselves. Have any of you actually seen him?"

"Oh—well, no. I haven't anyway." admitted Cecile.

"I have." said Meg, quietly. "He's tall, and he has dark hair. He looks just like any other gentleman in an evening suit, until he turns around."

"What do you see then?" I asked. Her description sounded more likely than any of the others—and more frightening.

"His face is a white skull. No flesh."

"It sounds like he's wearing a mask."

"It's what's under it!" shrieked Marie.

"That's enough." said Janine. "So, Kitty, are you ready to try?"

"Sure." I said, and why not? I wasn't afraid. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Yes! Keep one hand up, like this. At the level of your eyes." Cecile demonstrated.

"Why?" I asked.

"So if he throws a noose around your neck, you can get free and he won't choke you to death!"

"Does he do that a lot?" _That_ sounded bad to me. "And I mean, do you know the names of people he did that to? Recently? For certain?"

"No—but everybody says that's what he does!"

"My mother might know." said Meg.

Since nobody knew any details, I wasn't about to believe there was a mad strangler loose in the Opera house. I opened the door.

"I'm ready." I said.

"Wait—let me go up and run over to the other landing." cried Cecile, and I got to cool my heels until she called, "All right!" from the other side.

"Here I go—," I went through the door. The candles flickered as the girls shut the door behind me, but they stayed lit, and bobbed normally as I walked across the room. I was carrying the only source of light in the huge space, and it was spooky. I had to remind myself that Logan taught me how to fight, and Prof. X taught me how to use my powers. If there was anything or anyone in that room, _they_ ought to be afraid of _me_, and not the other way around. That helped.

I went around a big coil of rope, past heaps of rolled-up back drops, sidestepped a small landslide of old scores, and scuffed up dust, which made my nose itch. I let my hand drop back down by my side—if I were suddenly lassoed, I would go intangible, and the rope would fall right through my neck to the ground. Besides, it was very uncomfortable to keep one hand up like that.

It seemed to take forever to cross the room, but it was probably less than five minutes, and soon I was writing "Katherine Pryde was here." in big letters on the wall. Nothing strange or untoward happened. I knocked on the door to the stairs, and Cecile opened it. "You made it!" she squeaked. "And there's your name. Now all you have to do is go back."

"All right." I said.

"Did anything happen?"

"Not a thing."

"Were you scared?" she inquired.

"Not really." I told her.

"Oh!" she said, surprised. "Well, it's not as if you'd trained here, and came up knowing about the ghost. I'll leave this door open. That way, even if your candles do go out, there'll be a little light. I'm going back to the others now."

She left, and I turned around to begin the return leg of my journey. I had gone about a quarter of the way, more or less, when the door she had left open suddenly closed. I stopped walking. "Cecile?" I asked.

"No," said a man's voice, directly into my right ear. I looked over my shoulder. Of course there was no one there. If he were that close, I would have felt his presence, felt his breath—almost felt his lips! The voice was _that_ close…

"I'm not scared, and I'm not impressed." I said out loud to whoever was listening, but I made myself intangible, just in case, as I continued, "I can think of five ways to close that door without touching it, and I know about ventriloquism."

The voice chuckled in my other ear. "Really?" it, or he, inquired lazily. "Then, what about—this?" One of the candles went out with a little hiss, as if someone had licked his fingers and pinched it out.

"I've seen that done as well," I answered, truthfully, and started walking again. I wasn't about to hurry, but I wasn't going to stand around either. I didn't want to have to reveal my power. Being phased, I walked right through a crate that was in my way, by accident, though. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

"So.," he said. "You're the new girl. The one they say dances like a feather on the breeze." The voice was keeping up with me as I walked, as if he were walking right by my side.

"That's a nice compliment." I said. "Thank you."

"I'm just repeating what I've overheard. You know, I've heard that English blood runs cold, but I didn't think it was meant in _this_ way…"

Another candle was snuffed out, just like the first.

"I'm American, actually." I told him.

"I beg your pardon…" he returned.

I could see what was coming, and I decided to forestall him. I stopped. "Let me spare you the trouble." I said. I blew out the last candle myself, and put the holder down by my feet. Then I quickly stuck my fingers in my ears. I had noticed something about his voice, and to test my theory I needed to block my ear canals.

I was rewarded by a startled laugh. "Brava, Mademoiselle," he said, "I applaud your spirit." The candles flamed back into life of their own accord. "You may continue. I shan't trouble you any further—tonight."

I unplugged my ears and picked up the candlestick. "You were no trouble. In fact, thank you for escorting me. Otherwise, I might have been scared."

That made him laugh again. His laugh faded in the distance as I made my way back over to the door where I had originally entered, where the girls greeted me and asked about my return walk. I told them what had happened, but they thought I was making it up—all except for Meg.

As for the 'trouble' I mentioned at the beginning of this letter, I have called the Ghost's attention to myself, which could well mean trouble. Perhaps I _should_ have screamed and trembled like a good little 'petite rat', as they call us Ballet corps girls.

But what, you may ask, was I trying to find out by jamming my fingers in my ears? What had I noticed about his voice?

After I had blocked my ears, his voice had sounded as clear and distinct as if my fingers weren't there. Fingers can't block sound out completely, but they do muffle and distort it. The reason his voice sounded unchanged to me, was that it wasn't arriving in my head by way of my ears. He was speaking to me mind-to-mind.

The Opera Ghost is a telepath—and either telekinetic or pyrokinetic, possibly both, because of the tricks he played with the candles.

He is one of us. He is an Evolved.

Would you be so kind as to share this with the Professor? I'll be writing to him soon, and I'm sure I'll have more to tell by then.

Love,

Kitty

PS: Have you had a letter from Peter? How is he?


	3. Unpleasant Realities

Letter from K. Pryde, 117 Rue de la, Paris, France to Professor Charles Xavier, Xavier House, London, England.

Dear Professor Xavier;

I am sorry to hear that you are being taken to court over fishing rights to the lake. It sounds as though there will be a drawn out and tedious law-suit over this. I can hardly imagine that Lord Stephens is going to win, but why would he want to fish there anyway? I don't recall ever seeing anything larger than a minnow in it. I think it's all because Logan is away. He intimidated Lord Stephens just by_ breathing_.

I am writing to you from the desk in my room here in Frau Levy's boarding house for young ladies—specifically, young Jewish ladies. Or, as Frau Levy hints, _all_ her boarders are ladies except for _me_. I am a dancing girl, and she does not approve of me.

Ultimately, I chose her over a theatrical-profession landlady because I can eat at her table and keep my food down afterward. It does me no good to rationalize that rabbit, pork and shellfish are perfectly wholesome, and that many people eat them every day. Or that cream sauces do not contaminate meat, because while I might be able to convince my brain of that, I can't convince my stomach. Fortunately I was not brought up so very strictly as Hephzibah Goldberg, another girl who rooms here—she's fainted from hunger in public because she couldn't bring herself to eat away from a kosher table. On the other hand, she eats little enough at Frau Levy's table, but that could be a different kind of problem.

My room itself is fresh and white—very white, scrubbed and painted. To help relieve the coldness of all that white, I've put up the ukiyo-e prints I got in Japan, when Logan and I were there two years ago, hung my second-best sword on the wall for a decoration, and bought a geranium for my window sill. Not the candy-apple sort of geranium, but the ruffle-flowered kind, with purple and magenta blooms. I have a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, a desk/vanity table, a chair, and a bathroom—which I share with six other girls.

For this and two meals a day, breakfast and supper, I pay 40 francs a week, which is five more than the girls in more respectable professions pay, and laundry is extra. Laundry, in this case, means not only my clothes, but the bed-linens and towels. This brings the charge up closer to fifty francs.

All-in-all, life here is both more expensive and more restricted than I had thought it would be. Frau Levy has a lot rules I must abide by, or face eviction. I cannot have any food or drink in my room, not so much as a cookie or a cup of tea. I cannot entertain guests in my room, not even female ones—not even another girl who rooms here. I can only have visitors in the sitting room, and no men unless they are elderly relatives—and even then, I couldn't be alone with him.

I don't get a key to the front door. If I must come in late, and once I start performing, I will have to, I must ring and wake half the house. Should I ever stay out all night, I will be thrown out—unless I'm in the hospital, or presumably, unless I'm dead, when it will no longer matter. This is quite a contrast to life at Xavier House, where you trusted us to sleep in the summer house if we felt like it, or to camp out under the stars.

I've been kept very busy at the Opera Populaire, with practice, drills, and rehearsals. It is very different from taking lessons three or four times a week! At the moment, I'm finding it exhausting, which is good. It is doing exactly what everyone was hoping—I fall asleep at night dreaming of pirouettes rather than Peter.

During the day, I am being put through the wringer by Madame Giry, who says that it will be weeks, if not months, before I am fit to set so much as one toe in front of an audience. The most difficult thing, I am finding, is learning how to perform with a large ensemble and call no attention to myself as an individual—to be part of a seamless whole. The second most difficult thing is wrapping my toes so that when my blisters break and bleed, I don't stain my shoes—or my bed sheets.

With all of this, you may be wondering about the Opera Ghost, who is very much a living Evolved. I haven't learned that much more since I wrote to Kurt, but what I predicted has already come true. He _is_ taking an interest in me.

Yesterday afternoon, after rehearsal, Madame Giry stopped me before I left the building. She had one of the Ghost's notes in her hand. "Mademoiselle Pryde—do you sing?" she asked.

"I sing—along, Madame."

"Sing along? What do you mean?"

"I've never had any vocal training. Xavier House was too small a school to have a music teacher. I took ballet lessons in town. When I said that I sing along, I mean I joined in when others sang, just for fun." I replied.

"Nevertheless, follow me." We collected Mademoiselle de Azay, the ballet corps' pianist, and went off to a poky little practice room tucked in underneath a flight of stairs. The Opera House is full of nooks like that—spaces that were never intended for use as rooms, pressed into service as needed. It's no wonder that the Ghost can live here undetected.

Mamselle de Azay took me up and down some scales, and then she gave me a piece of music. I can't read music, and I told her so. So she sang the song to me and played the tune, and I followed it as best I could. "Caro mio ben..." was how it started.

Neither one applauded when I finished, nor were they gaping silently in wonder at the unsuspected beauty of my voice. They weren't covering their ears or wincing in pain either, so I couldn't have been _that_ bad.

When pressed for an opinion, Mamselle de Azay said, "Her upper register is undeveloped, and her lower register is lacking as well. She has no idea how to breathe, her phrasing is abysmal, she gasps loudly when she takes a breath, and she has no idea of projection whatsoever. She also scoops. Badly. On the other hand, she stayed on key, and she had good tone and resonance."

I had no idea what any of that meant and she must have seen that, so she explained, "You don't have a bad voice, but you are completely untrained. The world is full of not-bad voices. Take some lessons, and see if you improve."

I have asked what scooping means. It seems to be the vocal equivalent of shuffling your feet instead of picking them up and taking proper steps.

I'm guessing that the Ghost was secreted away somewhere listening. That must have been the point of going to that particular practice room. I hope his curiosity was satisfied, because I don't think I'm going to take any voice lessons. I came here to be a dancer, not a singer. I might spend a lot of time and money on singing lessons only to find out that 'not bad' is all my voice will ever be. There are a lot of other things I could do with the money.

On another note, you'll never guess what familiar face came through the Opera house the other day—Alice Blaire! It was good to see someone from home. We went out to lunch, and she asked to be remembered to you, and that I should send you her best regards, which I do.

Something that she said at lunch made me realize that you have given me the greatest evidence that you trust me—you allowed me to go to Paris on my own, and to join the Ballet corps here. I will try to deserve it.

I'll write again soon, but it's late.

Love,

Kitty

PS: Has anyone heard anything from Peter yet? Could something have happened to him?

* * *

Editor's Note: In case any readers may be wondering why Kitty seems to write a lot of letters and doesn't seem to get any, or why she writes so much to some people and not to others, the answer is that A: many of the letters she gets have little or nothing to do with her adventures in the Opera Populaire, so they aren't reproduced here—for example, the letter from Prof. X about his lawsuit over those fishing rights. _Nobody_ would want to read about that in detail. If there's anything important in a letter she got, it'll be here. And B: many letters she writes tell the same news, only to different people. Also, some of the letters have been lost or destroyed. For example, several letters she sent to Logan in Japan were reluctantly used to start a fire in an emergency, when Logan was stuck in a freak snowstorm outside of Okinawa.

* * *

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Auroré Munro, Xavier House. 

Dear Auroré:

This is a letter which has in it some things that are a little too delicate to ask the professor about, so before you get into it, perhaps you ought to get out of his mental shouting range. Alice Blaire stopped by the Opera Populaire two days ago, and when she took me out to lunch, it turned out that she had some advice to give me, from a more experienced entertainer to a newcomer. I decided after thinking it over, that I should write to you and tell you what she said, because I really need to find out if her information is accurate.

This is how it happened: I was warming up at the barré in the public practice hall, when I heard a voice say, "Kitty—Kitty Pryde? Is that you?" It was Alice.

She was wearing a blue dress trimmed with ivory frills that made me want to cry out of envy, because it was so beautiful and matched her eyes so perfectly. It would have looked wonderful on you, too. It was cut in the new princess line, with a low square neck. I didn't care at all for her hat, though—the ivory bow and the silk cornflowers were all right, but then she had a dead bird on it—a taxidermied swallow, wings, tail, head, beak and all, stuck on the front of it. I was revolted.

She saw me looking at it, and misinterpreted my look. "Mme Brochet's on the Rue de la Paix," she said. "But what are you doing here?"

"In Paris, in the Opera Populaire, or in the Ballet Corps?" I replied.

"All three!" she said decisively.

"You know how when people go to the country to escape from bill-collectors, scandals, or broken hearts, it's called _rusticating_? I'm urbanizing, instead. I can't talk now, Alice. My Ballet mistress is about to thump a cane at us."

"Good God," she said, glancing at Madame Giry. "An Imperial Dragoness in human form. Do you get a lunch break?"

"Yes, at 11:30. And don't call her that, even in fun. She's very nice, underneath. Plus, she accepted me into the Corps."

"Then I take it back. I'll come back and take you out to—one of those tea places on the Rue de Rivoli. My treat. Will that be all right?" she inquired.

"Yes—if I'm back by one."

"Then it's settled."

She was as good as her word. As we left our cab to enter the tea shop, she was explaining, "I'm finishing up a run at the Opera Comiqué. I just stopped in to see what the Populaire's new managers were like. I'm off to Prague in less than a week."

Then we were in the salon de Thé. She asked for a secluded table, and the waiter led us half way down a hall to a table by a window that looked out over a tiny pocket garden that was all autumny gold and red.

"Good. This way, we can't be seen and so we won't disturb the peace of any unescorted men. Nor can we be overheard, which is good for my peace of mind."

"Unescorted men? I've heard of unescorted women, but—?" I asked.

"Any man on the loose without a woman to make him behave will be all over our table if we sit in the open. That's always happening to me, and if it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. I don't know what's changed you since I last saw you, but your eyes are just enormous, and you look very vulnerable, very fragile—which will draw the wolves."

"Like lambs to the slaughter," I remarked bitterly. "Any man who tries to make up to me right now is risking a slapped face, a bruised shin, and if I'm really annoyed, I'll do that trick with the knee and get him _there."_

"Ouch!" said Alice. "What's provoked this attitude?"

So I told her, which took us from tiny cups of steaming bouillon through the sandwiches and the potted salad. I cried—again—but it hurt less to tell it this time. It only felt like having a tooth pulled, not like having a limb amputated.

Once my apricot tart and her strawberry napoleon arrived, she lowered her voice and said, "I know Professor Xavier doesn't believe ignorance is any protection for a young woman, so I know you know the technical details. About—women and men. Mrs. McTaggert told you, right?"

"Yes. During the first week I was at the school. She cleared up a lot of confusion—the girls in my old school talked a lot about _that,_ but they got most of it wrong."

"Well, Mrs. McTaggert won't have filled your head with nonsense about how most women aren't troubled with _those_ sorts of feelings or about its being wrong or sinful. But she would have told you to wait until you have a ring or two on the proper finger of your left hand, am I right?" Alice looked at me with questioning eyes.

"Definitely."

"All right. Perhaps that's how life should work out, but it often doesn't. Umm—did you and Peter—anticipate your vows?"

"No, unless kissing counts." My face started going red.

"No." She took a deep breath. "Did anyone ever tell you how to put off becoming a mother? Beyond not doing _that_ at all?"

"Never," I muttered. I was beet red. I could feel it.

She took a swallow of tea. "This isn't easy to talk about."

"I don't plan on needing to know—not any time soon."

"Any time can come sooner than you expect. Very well. To begin with—have you ever seen those advertisements for medicines to cleanse the womb? They're not made to help you through your monthlies. They're meant to bring on a miscarriage. Never buy them. Never take them. Most of them are sugar-water and trash like that, and don't work. The ones that do are poisons, and the dosage that works is perilously close to the dosage that will kill you. I have never taken one myself—I've never had to. But I've worked in the theater for some time now, and I've known several girls who did."

She continued, "Don't go to anyone, doctor, midwife, or any one else, who says they can make it go away with an operation, unless you want to bleed to death, or die of a putrid infection, or end up barren. There isn't any safe way to end it—not now, any way. The best thing to do is stop it before it begins."

Editor's note: Several paragraphs have been excised here, because these methods are not something you should try at home. Be glad you live in the 21st century. Be very, very, glad. If you really want to know, ask in a signed review and I'll email you what Alice said.

Alice finished by saying, "Also, never believe what a man says _then_. They're not in their right minds at the time. And if, even after all my advice, you should find yourself in trouble, go to the Professor. He would never throw you out. He would never abandon you. He'd find some way of dealing with your problem. It wouldn't be the end of your life, you know."

"Thank you—I think." I responded. "Did you come up with this as a way of scaring me off the idea? Because it worked, if you did."

"Not intentionally. I thought you ought to know. Look. You're away from home and without a chaperone for the first time. You're working in a theater and you're going to meet a lot of men. Many of them will find you attractive. The Ballet Corps is a recruiting ground for potential mistresses. Look at Agnes Sorelli. She's the mistress of the Comte de Chagny. And I guarantee you that some of your fellow petite rats have men friends who help them with the rent money."

I must have looked stunned, because she added, quickly, "It doesn't make them bad girls! It's more like—she's fond of him, and they're in love and they see each other, and he helps her out, here and there."

Auroré, the reason I'm confiding all of this to you is that I need to know—leaving aside whether her advice is good or bad—is it accurate? Can you find out the truth about the lemons and vinegar part of it?

Think of this as how much the Professor and Sir Erich trust me, because they must know this—and they let me come here, anyway!

Love to you forever,

Kitty

PS: Thank you for the news about Peter and his time in Vienna. Please keep me up to date on what he's doing. I cannot help wondering.

* * *

Excerpt from a letter: 

Katherine Pryde to Sir Erich Lensherr.

I left something out when I wrote to the Professor about singing at the request of the Opera Ghost. The pianist, Mademoiselle de Azay, asked me if I'd never sung in a choir or in church.

I said, unwisely, I now know, "Where I worship, women aren't allowed to sit downstairs, let alone sing."

"Oh—and where is that?" she asked.

I realized my mistake, as I mumbled, "In Synagogue."—and this awful look came over her face.

"Then you're a—Jew." She made it sound filthy.

"Yes." I said. "I am."

It took hardly any time to get all over the Opera house.

I hadn't meant to keep it a secret—but I hadn't meant to advertise it, either. I wore my Star of David under my clothes. I never realized what a sheltered life I had in Xavier House, until I left it. Sheltered from financial need and from other unpleasant realities.

I would appreciate any advice you can give on how to be here, how to stay here, when a girl I joked with in the morning whispers, "Christ-killer!", under her breath at me in the afternoon, once she has learned what I am.

Sincerely yours,

Katherine Pryde

* * *

A/N to my reviewers: 

Lackaz & Celticstorms: Thanks so much!

Ellen: Thanks! Kitty does make a very brief appearance in the first movie and Prof X. speaks to her by name before she phases through a door. I hope she gets a larger part in X3, if there will be one. As far as the name Rasputin goes, I think the writers wanted a very identifiably Russian name, but as far as this AU goes—what a good idea for a future story!

SperryDee: Thank you! I try to get details right. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

To all my readers (bless you!) There's not much Erik in this chapter, but the next will have a lot more, the fifth chapter will be almost entirely Erik, and if my ADD meds hold out, either chapter 6 or chapter 7 will be about Sir Erich meeting Erik….


	4. But what can one ghost have to fear from...

Excerpt from the Journals of Erik.

_**There is another creature in this world who is like me.**_

If should live to be old, unlikely as that is, I will want to experience this moment again. I will want to take out this account. I am doing now as I did when I bought that raw, young port wine—not to drink now, but to lay aside against the future.

They trapped her in the water closet. Vicious little biches.

I wasn't really watching. I merely happened to see. I was using a feather to oil the new hinges on my private door into that particular hallway, and the view slit was right before my eyes.

One of the girls had a wad of chewing chicle-gum distending her cheek. Some American opera-goer had brought a large box of it as a present to the ballet girls. Most of them had immediately taken to chewing the gum, like so many heifers with their cuds—only less cleanly.

They were leaving sticky lumps of it all over the opera house, in the oddest places. I had already been inconvenienced by the stuff, and I resolved to send the managers a note to the effect that chewing chicle-gum was forbidden anywhere inside the Opera environs, on pain of my great displeasure.

The girl with the gum in her mouth tiptoed up to the door of the washroom, plucked that foul gob from her mouth with thumb and forefinger, and jammed it deep into the keyhole. Then she fluttered back to titter with her nasty little coven over her own cleverness.

"Serves the Jewess right." said one, out loud.

"The smelly kike," agreed another, "Let's go."

At that moment, none of it made any particular impression on me. There was an aggravating splinter of metal adhering to the edge of one hinge, right where it could snag on my clothing. I pulled out my smallest rasp, and set to work as silently as I could. I could hear water running. Presently, I heard the door to the water closet rattle as the occupant tried to leave, and found she couldn't.

An indignant "Hey!" came from inside.

I knew the voice, of course. The girl who wasn't afraid of disembodied voices, or of the dark. The girl who answered back with a sharp provided wit, and made me laugh. The American.

The dancer, Katherine Pryde.

(Merely writing her name is a pleasure. Katherine Pryde. My name is there in her name, hidden, transposed. **K**ath**ERI**ne. A fanciful conceit. I must remember that, make something of it later.)

She shook the door, banged on it, and called out, "Is anyone there?" She struggled with the door again. There came a thump as if someone had given the door a good hard kick—and then she swore, fluently, in Russian.

That was amusing. Wherever could she have picked up those particular phrases? The passage was deserted. I was about to step out into the hall and pick the chicle out of the lock. My mental fingers would be of little help with that, as I couldn't see what I was affecting, but I could then keep the door closed until I was back in the wall…

When I saw something white emerge from the dark wood surface of the door, something that wriggled like a pale fish in dark water, something very like a hand.

It was, I realized, very like a human hand because it was a hand. Her hand.

She grappled with the doorknob and felt around for a key or a latch, but found none. In frustration, she spat out another very bad word— and this time, in Arabic.

(What kind of education has she had, I wonder? Multilingual profanity suggests a more varied one than most young ladies.)

Then—and again, the imagery that springs to my mind is of water—her face welled up out of the door, as if from the horizontal surface of a pond. She glanced left, then right. Seeing no one, thinking herself unobserved, she stepped through the door into the hall.

I had stopped breathing. My heart was pounding, I could feel it in my temples, in my throat, in my wrists. The dull roar of my blood sounded in my ears, and pains, like that of a limb fallen asleep, stung me all over.

It was not an illusion. It was not a trick. Illusions and tricks are meant for an audience.

I had to force myself to start breathing again. I made a sound, and she whipped her head around, faster than a cobra's strike, to shoot a wary look across the hall in my direction.

If she could see through walls as easily as she could pass through them, she would have seen me in the full glory of rough laborer's clothes, begrimed with grease, dust and sweat, my fingers dripping with oil, an old and not-too-clean scarf covering—what I hide, and, I fear, the expression of a gaffed fish on my face. Such as it is.

It was not the moment to make myself known to her.

She could not see me, and, after a moment turned back to the door to investigate. She peered into the blocked keyhole, poked her fingers back into the door, and withdraw them, revealing a stringy mass of chicle-gum that clung like a small, noxious jellyfish.

"Eeh!" she articulated. "Disgusting." She found a scrap of paper, put it to use, and went back in to wash her hands again, opening the door and closing it. I could hear the water.

(I should have seen it at once, when I first spoke to her. Strong men have pissed themselves and wept when I doused their lights and spoke to them out of the darkness. Why should she be so unafraid? She is half my size, and delicately built. And lovely. The top of her head would barely reach my lower lip. But what can one ghost have to fear from another ghost?)

She paused when she came back out. For a moment, her head drooped on her shoulders, and she slumped in a pose of weariness and despair. A sound that was half sigh, half sob escaped her.

Of course; here she was, young, away from home, and alone, alone in ways I understand too well. Insulted and harassed—well, I shall do something about that! That will be the first thing I can do for her. And for the second….

For some reason, chapter 4 turned out to be all Erik!

Hi, Ellen—This one's almost writing itself. Already, the chapter where Kurt comes by is taking shape in my imagination—and I also have to settle the question of whether or not Logan has ever been to Mazenderan.

OK—any comments, folks?


	5. Shouting

Excerpt of a letter from Sir Erich Lensherr, Warefield, Devonshire, England to Messieurs André and Firmin, Opera Populaire, Paris, France:

As you can see from the figures my secretary has drawn up, you will realize a substantial profit from this investment.

Turning to artistic matters, my protégé, Miss Pryde, sent me the most diverting letter a few weeks ago, telling me all about the Opera Ghost. She is an excellent correspondent, and I always look forward to receiving a letter from her.

However, the last letter I had from her was not so amusing. If I am to understand correctly, she is encountering some hostility on the grounds that she is a Jew. As her guardian—as her father in all but blood—I am deeply distressed on her behalf. I had not thought that in an establishment devoted to the highest of all cultural forms, this ancient and ugly prejudice would rear its head.

May I point out to you that many of your season ticket holders are also Jewish? The Rothschilds—the Heines—the Pfishingers—the Kaminskys—all are Jewish. All of them are prominent patrons of the arts. There are many others—these families merely sprang to mind first. Of course, I myself am Jewish. I am not without influence, sirs. If Katherine Pryde is not welcome on your stage, then you may find you have rather fewer patrons in your house.

I remain, sirs, yours sincerely,

Erich Lensherr, Baron Ware

-

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Sir Erich Lensherr, Warefield, Devonshire, England.

Dear Sir Erich (I am still not sure how to address you.);

I promised to report to you on matters here, and how they continue to regard my Jewish presence. While their feelings remain unchanged, I have hopes that they will stop expressing themselves quite so openly.

You asked if the managers knew what was going on. They do, or at least they do now, but unfortunately, despite the fact that it is their opera house, here they wield all the authority of a couple of pats of butter. Like butter, they have a sad tendency to melt under heat and pressure.

The real forces in the Opera Populaire are Carlotta Guidicelli, the prima donna, Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, and, of course, the Ghost. (There is a prima ballerina, Agnes Sorelli, but she doesn't count for anything. She is not a clever woman, and thinks of little or nothing.) While Carlotta has not expressed any opinion on the subject of Jews in the Theatre, both Madame Giry and the Ghost have come down on my side. I am very grateful to Madame Giry for taking my part, but my feelings about the Ghost's support are mixed.

If my account of this week's events seems lighthearted in places—almost farcical—it is not because I am not seriously affected, for I am. It is because it is too painful. The humor here is not a smile—it's the rictus grin of death.

On Sunday, I was trapped in the washroom by a wad of chewing gum, and called a smelly kike.

Monday, which was the day before yesterday, was particularly bad. We were onstage, to block out the movements for the dance at the wedding in Le Nozze di Figaro, when one of the Maries—there are three—asked me a question while we were standing around waiting.

"So, how many Christian babies have you helped eat, Kitty?"

"Marie!" hissed Meg. "That's a terrible thing to say. Stop it!"

"But everybody knows Jews steal Christian babies to kill them and eat them. Roasted, on their holy days. On which holiday do you usually have baby-meat? Passover, or Hanukah?"

I kept quiet. Answering back would only make things worse. I could feel my face getting hot, though. I had heard of that allegation before, but no one had ever accused me of it.

"You're making me feel sick!" Meg shot back. "Kitty, don't let her bother you. You shouldn't have to put up with this. Tell my mother. Or let me tell her."

"No," I said. "Thank you, Meg, but no. That wouldn't fix things."

"I don't see why_ I_ should make you feel sick," drawled Marie. "I'm not the one who actually eats the poor little things. Do tell us, Kitty. Do you have them on the table as often as every Sabbath dinner? Roasted, with an apple in its mouth, because you can't eat pigs-Aaa!" She broke off with a scream, because a sandbag had fallen and grazed her elbow.

"The Phantom!" "It's him!"—and the session broke up for a few minutes as Marie burst into tears, and the accusations flew back and forth. Her elbow was bleeding a little, and had to be bandaged. The entire ballet corps gathered around to help, or watch, or both. I hung around the edges, and said nothing.

"See!" Meg whispered as she wrapped Marie's arm. "You shouldn't talk like that. The Phantom doesn't like it." She produced a note from him. "Look at this."

The note read:

'While I am not Jewish myself, I have never forgotten this—of all the maidens of all the races across the world, God Himself chose a Jewish girl to be His mother. Do you remember this, also? **_Cease your chatter!_**

O. G.'

"What chatter is this?" asked Madame Giry, who had slunk up on us.

I was not going to tell. No one else was forthcoming, either. Meg appealed to her mother with her eyes. "Very well." Madame concluded, ominously.

The Ghost's note—the way he put things—bothers me in a way I can't quite put my finger on.

Yesterday was quieter. Madame Giry had me stay late, put me through a grueling private session, and asked, at the end, if the taunting troubled me greatly. Meg had told her everything. I told her that yes, it did, but no one had said anything since the Phantom's note. She said she was sorry I had to endure it, and that my _battement lents_ needed work.

Today, although the girls were silent, it got worse. Much worse.

We were going to rehearse on stage, for what will be my onstage debut as a 'Servant Maiden', but the corps never got out of the warm-ups. I was stretching and bending at the barré, when Janine went up on pointé, only to collapse with a scream. She sprawled on the floor, and everyone rushed toward her where she writhed and grabbed at her left foot, clawing at the shoe. An ugly red stain began at the toe and started to spread as I watched.

"My shoe!" she howled. Someone found a pair of scissors and cut it from her foot. Her big toe and second toe wept blood.

"Glass. Look, it's stuck in her toes!" Shards and splinters glittered amid the gory mess.

"Someone get the Opera Doctor, fast." Someone had taken her shoe and put broken glass down in the padding at the toe, in such a way that until she put her full weight on it, she had felt nothing. It was horrible. Two of the larger girls picked Janine up and carried her into the big corps dressing room, and the rest of us trailed after them

"Who could have done this to you?" asked Madame Giry.

"Kitty!" shrieked Janine. "The Jew-girl, Kitty Pryde."

Every head in the room turned toward me.

"I didn't! I wouldn't!" I protested. "I'd never do something like that to anyone, not even my worst enemy!" Girls were drawing into little clusters around the room, murmuring to each other and sneaking pointed glances at me.

It was easily the worst moment of my life. I felt ill, sick to my stomach, sick at heart.

"No.", said Madame Giry. "I don't believe you would." She turned back to Janine, whose face was smeary with tears. "What makes you accuse her? Answer carefully, Janine."

Janine heaved several big sobs, and forced out, "Because—because—."

Meg interrupted "Mother—there's a note from the Phantom."

"Yes? Let me see it."

"But, Mother—it was sewn into Jeanette's dancing slipper." She handed over the cut-up, blood-stained message.

Madame Giry put the pieces back together, and read aloud, "'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you' is the Rule of Gold. But the Rule of Steel holds true as well: 'Do not do unto others what you would not want done unto you'. Take heed, for this is my second warning. Harm Katherine Pryde at your peril. O.G." She turned to Janine again. "This implies—Did you put that glass in Kitty's shoe, first? Did you?"

Janine's crying redoubled.

"Don't bother to deny it! Oh, that this should happen in _my_ corps de Ballet!" The Opera doctor arrived, quite out of breath. "Good! Bandage up her foot and send her home. Forever! Janine, whether your foot heals so you can ever dance again or no, I do not care. I will not take back a girl who would put glass in _anyone's_ shoe."

She paced up and down the room for a moment, her hands to her head, then whirled and pointed at me. I was pulling my things out of my cubbyhole. "Katherine Pryde, what do you think you are doing?"

"I am going back to Yorkshire." I told her. "Because what's going to come next? Ground glass in my cold cream, so I rip my face to shreds? Sulfuric acid in my eye drops? Not to mention dressing and undressing for weeks under the eyes of a man who's exactly as much of a ghost as I am?" I couldn't see any other way he could have found out about the glass in my shoe—not at that moment. I had temporarily forgotten he was a telepath.

I found a bag and started to throw my toiletries into it. "If putting glass in somebody's shoe is a Christian act, I'm going to move to some place in Africa where they've never seen a white face before, and teach them to shoot missionaries on sight!"

Madame Giry shouted, in a terrible voice, "Katherine Pryde, I have not dismissed you!"

Janine's sobs were threatening to drown us both out, as the doctor picked broken glass out of her toes.

I wadded up my street clothes and headed for the door. I opened it, but the handle ripped itself out of my hand as the door slammed shut. I dropped my things and yelled, "Ghost! Phantom! Whoever you are, you have no right to stop me leaving and no way on this Earth of making me stay! _You didn't have to put that glass in her shoe!_"

I wasn't quite mad enough to phase right through the door in front of everybody—not while I was still wearing my practice tutu and toe shoes. So I slammed myself down on a bench and started untying my ankle ribbons.

"Now!" raged Madame Giry. "All of you will pay attention. Oh, what is it!"

Someone was knocking on the door. "Come in!" she called. The door opened

The Opera Populaire employs a lot of people, and it seemed as if most of them were out there. Even in a building that is accustomed to scenes enacted at top volume, the noise we were making must have been notable, and we had drawn a crowd.

Monsieur Firmin was standing in the door, looking hesitant. "If this is a bad time…?" he began.

"It is," snapped Madame Giry. "I am about to deliver a much needed lecture on how in the Arts and ballet in particular, all races and religions are of equal dignity and only the performance matters. This is utterly necessary because—."

"Because Mademoiselle Pryde is Jewish?" inquired M. Firmin.

She blinked in surprise. "Then you know? Were we that loud?"

"Not exactly. I was already on my way to speak to you privately about the matter, but since it has become an open secret, as it were, hah, perhaps you had better accompany me back to the office. I know André will want to have his say. Mademoiselle Pryde should come as well."

"I will." she decided. "Katherine, you will stop removing your shoes and come along. You can quit and bury yourself in Yorkshire after this meeting, if you choose. A quarter of an hour will make very little difference."

I took a deep breath. "As you wish, Madame." I gathered up my belongings and followed them. I wasn't going to leave them behind in the changing room where the other girls could use my dress to wipe the floor, or worse.

I didn't get to go in the office—not even the outer office. I was left to sit on a hard-backed chair in the hall while they talked inside. I put my things down, fished out a clean towel, and gave into tears.

When I think about the last few years of my life, about all the things I've seen and done—the people who tried to kill me, or take over my mind, body or soul—all the dangers I've faced, and all the heartache—and set them beside the unwarranted malice I've encountered in the last week—I think I had rather face Lady Deathstrike unarmed and powerless, if by doing so I could end that prejudice.

So I cried. I cried for a lot of reasons.

I cried because I didn't really want to go back to Xavier House, where everybody would be so nice and kind about how my ballet career ended, just as they were nice and kind when Peter jilted me.

I cried because Frau Levy makes very nasty comments about girls who don't observe Sabbath because they have to _dance. _

I cried because there was a grown man somewhere in the Opera house who thought it was only fair and right to take broken glass out of my shoe and put it in Janine's.

I cried because, deep down, there was a darkly venomous part of me that wasn't sorry Janine's toes were now like ground meat.

I cried until my throat swelled up and dried out, and then I got up to go splash cold water on my face. I drank a glassful of it, too, and let the soothing coolness coax me into feeling a little better.

Then I went back to my uncomfortable seat in the hall. The ghost had left me, not a note—it was too long to be a note, but a letter. I broke the seal and read it. It is too long to copy out here, but it was sympathetic, and it explained some things. He saw me phasing, it seems. We have recognized one another. I am still deeply troubled because he could have, should have, just thrown away that glass, rather than putting it in Janine's shoe.

Something nice happened. Meg brought me a cup of coffee to drink while I had to wait. She also told me that not all the girls who were making anti-Semitic comments really meant them, that some of them were only following Marie and Janine's lead. That was not so nice. I will never trust them again, now, even so.

Then they called me into the inner office. I do not know what went on in there—it would have been interesting to be a fly on the wall, and listen in. The conclusion is that I will not leave, but I will have a dressing room to myself, instead—with a door that locks. I will have the key. Madame Giry and I went back to the dressing room, where she delivered the promised lecture. The on-stage rehearsal was postponed until tomorrow, because Madame said the focus was lost. So we had class and practice as usual.

Afterwards, Madame had me stay for even more extra lessons, because a private dressing room is a privilege which must be paid for. In work. A lot of work—a lot _more_ work is ahead of me.

So there you have it—and I shall end this letter here.

Sincerely and exhaustedly yours,

Katherine Pryde

-

Excerpt from the Journals of Erik:

Her words, 'You didn't have to put that glass in her shoe!' stung. The anger in her voice was palpable.

_No, I didn't, but do you think anything less than that would convince these harpies that I was serious? _was what I would have said to her, but as matters stood—well! Nor, on even a little consideration, is that a reassuring way of putting it. Then that fool Firmin came in, and I had to seize my writing case and scramble to get to my office listening post.

Madame Giry is magnificent. I shall have to get them to raise her pay.

The first words out of her mouth were, "If you plan to dismiss Katherine Pryde on the grounds that she is a Jew, you are throwing away the Kohinoor Diamond in favor of a handful of rhinestones and paste imitations."

"But we don't plan to dismiss her! We want her to stay!" fussed André. "We _need_ her."

"Absolutely!" added Firmin. "She's very welcome here."

"I don't think you're saying this for the same reasons I am." She sounded suspicious. "I want her to stay because she is a dancer the likes of whom a teacher will come across only once in a lifetime—if she is lucky. Katherine Pryde is—" Madame Giry broke off for a moment, probably to collect her thoughts.

She continued, "Ballet has been in decline for a generation. Once it was equal in importance to opera; now it is no more than something to fill in the time between arias. I was not the dancer who redeemed it from the dust. Nor will my daughter be that one, as much as I had hoped otherwise. Katherine Pryde might. I have kept her later—worked her until she was too tired even to think—and when she is closest to exhaustion, her best work comes out."

"How so?" asked Firmin.

"You recall her audition. She stretches time when she leaps. It is as if she were no more solid than the air. Last night she managed a triple tour en l' air! A triple! And thirty fouettés without moving so much as an inch! Fourteen is considered remarkable! But it is more than that."

I knew what she meant. The other girls danced the steps in time with the notes. Katherine danced the music.

"She dances with energy—with passion." concluded Madame Giry.

And as for her energy and passion—sometimes it was possible to imagine that she was fighting rather than dancing, using her feet as a man might his fists. She brought an unusual power to her dance moves.

"But Sorelli is our prima ballerina….?" ventured André.

"Sorelli is popular only because men like to watch her hips wiggle and her breasts jiggle!" snapped Madame Giry. "At her best her dancing is merely competent. All her fame is based on her figure. They will not include _her_ when they write the history of ballet in this century."

Again, true, and these two fools were among her most notable, leering, admirers. I've never been moved by Sorelli's over-ripe curves—just so much pale flesh overflowing out of her corsets, above and below.

"But any plans I may have for Katherine Pryde will come to nothing if she quits and goes back to Yorkshire, which she may very well do because today Janine put broken glass in her slipper." Madame Giry informed them.

"In Kitty Pryde's slipper? Was that what all the shouting was about? She wasn't hurt, was she?" I was already quite familiar with this part. I let my attention turn to the letter I was writing—the first letter I have written to her.

(Note to self—this new invention of mine, this _felted pen,_ works well and silently, without dripping ink, but it does produce clumsy calligraphy. Must see if it can be refined. Looks as if a child had been copying my notes.)

I became aware of another sound—someone was crying. It was Katherine crying, I knew it. It was painful for me to listen to, wanting to comfort her.

All I could do was write faster.

"But she can't leave!" protested the taller fool. "Her guardian's threatening to start a Jewish boycott! A good quarter of our subscribers will demand refunds!"

"And the ghost's sent a note saying that if she leaves there won't be a single show put on until she returns," added the other one, gloomily. "Can this anti-Semitism be quelled?"

"I can manage the Ballet corps." said Madame Giry. "But while they are the closest to her, they aren't the only ones. There are the choirs, the musicians, the stagehands—Buquet has been very crude. You will have to do something yourselves. I have one—no, two suggestions. One—dock wages. Ten francs for every comment, paid to the one who reports it. Make it known.

"Two—give Katherine Pryde a private dressing room. It can be a small one, but it must have a working lock. Then she will have security and privacy. I will begin training her up, so she will warrant it. I want to start her in actual roles. You are planning to put on Il Muto soon, are you not? She can play Serafimo. She has the figure for trouser roles, and a _clever_ dancer who can _act_ will give the role life."

That meant suffering through Carlotta's Countess. I had planned to forbid _Il Muto_ from being put on, but the prospect of watching Katherine in skin-tight breeches was very attractive—and a thought that was a little too heating under the current circumstances.

And Katherine was still crying in the hallway. It was like having two bodies, one here listening behind the office wall, the other sobbing as though my heart was breaking. I brushed my mind against hers—her thoughts would probably prove unreadable, but at least I could share in what she was feeling.

She was thinking of me! At least that was part of what was going through her mind. That is good, certainly. She knows I exist.

She was crying, partly, because I was there, alone and disconnected from the rest of humanity, that was what I sensed. She is perceptive—she is compassionate! I knew all of this emotion I was experiencing couldn't be one-sided.

Katherine Pryde, if you want it, I will help to make you the most famous dancer in history. If you don't, if the prospect scares you, I'll give you this Opera house to rule, and we'll haunt it as a pair of the most elegant ghosts ever. We'll sit in Box 5 like any other fashionable couple, only we won't have to go out in the cold dark night afterward.

Only…only…

I can't write it.

Not even here.

-

Letter from O.G. to Katherine Pryde.

Dear Mademoiselle:

I know that it distresses you that I returned Janine's 'gift' to her as it was delivered to you. I am sorry. The virulent hatred you have met with is offensive to me—offensive in the extreme. I could see no more certain way to tell everyone that it will not be tolerated in my Opera House.

I do not spy on the dancers' dressing room- nor the singers'—or anyone's here. I like my own privacy, and I extend that privacy to others. However, when Janine told Marie about what she had done to your shoe, while they were leaving by the staff exit, I happened to overhear it. A few minutes later, your sole was saved—so to speak.

Your soul is your own, and I think it is a rare one. Rare enough to allow your physical being to accompany it when it does what grosser spirits cannot do— evanesce through solid wood.

Your secret could not possibly be safer with me. I hope that we will be better acquainted, soon, that you may learn how true that is. I want only that good may come to you.

Your respectful servant,

O.G.

-

A/N: Just a couple of things—a tour en l' air is something like an axel in skating—a 360 degree turn in midair. A fouetté is a tight spinning turn on one toe, propelled by thrashing the other leg. You'd recognize it if you saw it.

A question—are shorter chapters, updated more frequently, better than longer ones updated once a week?

To JP Money—Thanks! Try as hard as I can, typos creep in somehow. Maybe there's a typo demon, which steals letters from some words and inserts them in others….

To Lexy—Oh, good, another Kurt fan! Who better than Kurt to teach Erik a thing or two about acceptance, and tell him when he's just being self-indulgent? It will be fun, I promise!

SperryDee—Thanks for sticking with me. Glad you're enjoying the ride.

Celticstorms—I know just what you mean. I almost classified this fic as humor—but when I started plotting it, I realized it was going to get very real-world serious in places.

LadyBella & RubyMoon2—you help keep me smiling and focused on writing. Thanks.


	6. Suspense Builds

Telegram from Sir Charles Xavier, Newcastle, England to Katherine Pryde, Paris, France

**REGRET EMERGENCY PREVENTS ATTENDANCE AT DEBUT COAL MINE COLLAPSE NEWCASTLE OUR HEARTS WITH YOU WISH YOU BEST XAVIER ET AL**

-

Telegram from Sir Charles Xavier, Newcastle, England, to Lord Warren W. Worthington, Monte Carlo, Monaco

**IMPERATIVE YOU ATTEND OPERA POPULAIRE PARIS NIGHT OF NINETEENTH PERSONALLY UNABLE SO YOU REPRESENT US AT DEBUT KATHERINE PRYDE BALLET XAVIER**

-

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Auroré Munro, Xavier House

Dear Auroré;

This may be a short letter, because I'm writing it very late after I got home from my stage debut. I hope that by the time it reaches you, the crisis will be a thing of the past. I expect that in a few days, I will be reading newspaper accounts of the coal mine's collapse, and no doubt I will recognize my friends in the eyewitness accounts of the 'angels and good spirits' who rescued the trapped miners.

It would be selfish of me to want all of you here, when the lives of so many are in danger, but it is not selfish of me to wish there had been no mine collapse at all. I missed you very much. That is just me feeling sorry for myself, however. I was only in one dance in the middle of a whole opera, after all.

Sir Erich wasn't here for my debut, either. He is trapped in Parliament right now, and couldn't get away. He sent me a letter that began, 'Confound you, child, I need more notice than this!'

How I wish that man would re-marry and have some children of his own, rather than being parental at me! Which reminds me—he has apparently claimed to be my guardian. If he is, this is the first I've ever heard of it. Is he my guardian? Can you find out? If so, when and how did that happen?

He sent me a present along with the letter, a pearl necklace. It is a beautiful one, and the first piece of serious jewelry I have ever owned. Is it proper for me to keep it? Should I send it back to him? It must have been rather expensive, as the pearls are not small and there is an emerald set in the clasp. That man _will not_ buy _my_ daughterly affections, or any other kind of affections for that matter, with jewels. (Not that I suspect him of wanting the other kind.)

In any event, I did _not_ make my debut in front of only strangers, without a single person I knew there to see it. Warren came. I knew about it beforehand, because he sent me a bouquet of pale yellow roses and jasmine flowers, with his card attached. It arrived while I was getting ready in my dressing room. He took a box—not Box Five, as the managers are learning fast—and he was quite alone. I know, because he came back to the dancer's lounge afterward.

"Can this really be Kitty Pryde?" he said, as he took my hand. "Forgive me, but somehow when I thought of you, up until tonight, I always saw you as being perpetually thirteen, tiny, and rail thin. You are making me feel old!"

From the moment he entered the room, every female in it was gazing at him as if his face was ice cream and their eyes were spoons. He is _such_ a pretty man! _I_ wasn't, of course, but then I'm somewhat used to him.

"If you recall how I looked when I was thirteen, then you will understand that I didn't want to stay thirteen perpetually. What a martyrdom_ that_ would be." I told him. "And as for feeling old, surely you can't be more than thirty…" I drew out the moment. "...nine?"

He laughed. "A hit!—a palpable hit! Truly, though, I was never so surprised as when I got a telegram from the Professor commanding that I should come and throw myself at your feet tonight. I am very happy that I did."

"Thank you," I smiled. "It would have been bleak without one face that I knew in the audience. And thank you for sending those lovely flowers. My dressing room smells like a perfumery shop."

"You're welcome. But if you truly want to thank me, come and save me from having to eat dinner alone tonight." he coaxed.

"No, I'm afraid I can't." I replied.

"Why not? Surely we are old friends? Or at least we attended the same school, which is much the same thing?"

"Because although you and I know that, it would be too much trouble to explain away a co-educational boarding school to everyone else in the Opera Populaire. It's a veritable hive of gossip and scandal-bearing. I have no one to chaperone me. Instead, I have a horrible landlady."

"Surely simply going out to dinner wouldn't tarnish your reputation?" he asked.

"Wouldn't it just? Think a moment—what other interest could the wealthy young Earl of Worthing have in a ballet girl? No, I'm sorry, but it won't do. It was wonderful of you to come, though. And I do appreciate it. If you truly don't want to eat dinner alone, you might try chatting up some of the other girls."

"But you're the only one whose conversation wouldn't be a torture to endure." he pleaded.

"Oh, how _very_ charming of you! Careful—you're starting to reveal hidden depths to your character. That's worth much more than if you said you thought I was pretty."

"But I do think you are!" he protested. "Honestly—but now you're teasing. You really have grown, haven't you? And not all of it on the outside. Well, if you won't come with me to dinner, I shall go and eat it in lonely solitude. Good night—Katherine Pryde."

I do like Warren—but after all, he is Warren, and the only person he's ever loved more than he loves himself is Jean!

I went back to my dressing room to change—and found the Ghost had left a velvety crimson rose on my dressing table. Despite the fact that I had locked the door when I went down. It was the darkest red I have ever yet seen on a real rose. He also left a note, which read.

'Congratulations on your first performance—of many, I trust. You were the only one worth watching.

Yours, O.G.'

After all that warm glow of masculine admiration—and receiving some teacherly approval as well, because Madame Giry stopped in and told me my performance was 'entirely satisfactory', which for her is high praise—, I went home, woke everyone in my boarding house when I rang to be let in, and promptly got into a fight with Frau Levy over the issue of my supper. That took the enchantment off the night for me.

She said there was nothing for me to eat, because I hadn't been there at the proper hour when supper was served, and she wasn't going to cater to me. I said that she knew I would have late nights, that I was paying for my supper, and that I didn't care if it was just a plate of cold meat and bread, but I wanted a meal. Or a reduction in what she charges for board. I had told her about what I would need when I first arrived, so she couldn't say she didn't know.

I really could have done without that scene, but I did get a plate of food, cold though it was, with a pitcher of cold water to wash it down. I don't like the water in this arrondissement; it has a funny taste. The water in the Opera house is much better. I had to eat and drink with her eyes on me the whole time, and she snatched the plate and cup out of my hands when I was done. But now I am in the privacy of my room, finishing up this letter to you. I need some sleep.

Good Night,

Kitty

Ps. Could you send me a couple of tins of tooth powder? I don't like the kind they sell here. My teeth don't feel clean when I'm done brushing. Thank you in advance.

PPs. How is Peter?

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Opera Populaire, Paris, France, to Sir Charles Xavier, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.

Dear Professor Xavier;

This is a very brief letter, but I didn't want you to wait and worry until I can write a longer one.

I have been ill, quite seriously ill, in truth, but I am no longer in any danger. I have been very well taken care of—no one could have taken better care of me.

I tire very easily at present, but I will write more when I am stronger. If you reply, it would be better if you wrote to me in care of the Opera Populaire, as I have not been back to Frau Levy's for several nights. She will have written me off by this time, but I'm not too sorry about that. I will send you my new address when I have one.

Love,

Kitty

-

Letter from Erik to the Daroga (true identity unknown)

Daroga:

I do not care to have you wandering around shouting questions down here—it disturbs my tranquility. The guest who is presently in my house is not of flesh and blood like you; she and I are of the same kind, and that is _of some metal other than earth._

For the sake of our past, I am willing to satisfy your curiosity. If you will return here at seven this evening, I will take you to my house and grant you the privilege of seeing her and speaking to her yourself.

Erik

-

Excerpt from the Journals of Erik:

I have leisure now, to write about her visit. I could not spare the time to write, when it seemed as though she was dying. Perhaps it was ill-advised of me to bring her here, as sick as she was, and care for her myself, but I cannot regret it.

Katherine Pryde is mad. I can come to no other conclusion.

At first, I had thought it was some lingering delirium from the cholera, or that her mind had been permanently damaged by some subtle starvation, like that produced by deprivation of air, but no. When she went to bed a scant hour ago she was as well in body as she could be, and her intelligence and intellect are acute and well-developed.

She is calm, rational, and sensible in almost all ways, and where she is not, her madness is very gentle, really—in many ways a blessing, especially for me. I can comprehend it.

I love her all the more for her delusions, and if this is madness, let her never regain her senses….

There is not, there could never be a school _full_ of people such as the one she talks of, a school meant for and run by _people like us_.

-

A/N: This is a mini-chapter—the next part will be much longer. For the X-Fans who know Magneto's history, in this AU he has no living children. Sorry if you're Wanda Pietro fans, but I'm not too crazy about them. Sir Erich will be showing up soon, Warren will pay a return visit after that, and believe it or not, Raoul will even put in an appearance! Kurt will be in a chapter after that, entitled "How the Opera House's Boiler was so tiresome"

Hiya, **JP**—'Lord of the Dance'? I have to laugh and cringe at the same time…but I know where you got that image…Gerry in his costume for 'Point of No Return'! Erik will start giving her singing lessons, but it will take some time before she could possibly replace Carlotta—if she ever does.

**SerenaWolf**—I promise Kurt won't get shoved into the Raoul role. While Kurt cares a lot for Kitty, it's not a romantic love. What happens instead—two words. "Road Trip!" 19th century style, of course–That's directed to you, too, **Lexy,** as a hint of what's to come.

To all my reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you. My ADD continues to stay under control, and the inspiration particles are sleeting through the universe steadily.


	7. Cholera

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France to Professor Charles Xavier, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.

Dear Professor Xavier—although this letter is for everyone in Xavier House;

First, let me assure you that _I am perfectly safe and unharmed_.

I was sick near to death with cholera. I would not be alive now, except that I was very well taken care of, unselfishly, generously, even tenderly, by Erik, who is the Opera Ghost. I was his guest for the past week.

Let me say to you again: I am unharmed. My mind is completely my own, my heart is still in shreds, and my virginity is intact. There is no need for anyone to dash off to Paris to rescue me or to defend or avenge my honor.

The last time I wrote to you, I was in Erik's house, and part of the reason it was so short and not like me is that I couldn't be sure he wouldn't read it before he posted it, and I didn't want to put anything down that I would not be comfortable about, should he see it.

I'm very, very, glad Logan is in Japan right now, because he would be halfway to Paris by this time, despite my reassurances.

Let me go back to the beginning of my illness. I know how I was infected, because twenty-seven people in the same arrondissement as Frau Levy's boarding house died of it—including Sarah Steiner, who had the room two doors down from me. The water was tainted—the same water that I complained about, because it had a funny taste.

I didn't really know Sarah—only well enough to say 'Good morning. It looks like rain, don't you think?' She was studying astronomy at the University of Paris—which was unprecedented for a woman. I meant to get to know her better. I will never get to know her now.

I was taken ill two nights after my debut. I came offstage and went up to change. At first I thought I had pulled a muscle, because I was getting leg cramps, and then—.

Cholera is not a disease that lends itself to romanticizing, like consumption.

Consumption is slow, and it leaves the sufferer thin, pale and interesting. Cholera is fast, disgusting, humiliating, and ugly. I had to rush to the washroom. I'm going to try not to be indelicate about my symptoms.

It was extremely painful, as if giant fists grabbed my midsection and squeezed me as if I were a tube of paint which burst in both directions, and it went on for a very long time. First I was hot—so hot I dripped with sweat, and my heart started banging very fast and very hard.

My body was completely out of my control. For the first time in my life, I was made aware that _it could die. _I thought my heart would stop. It was terrifying.

After a while, the first attack subsided, and I grew cold, cold enough to shiver. I pulled myself together, cleaned up as best I could, and washed my hands and my face. I was raw and sore all over, and still suffering from deep and painful muscle cramps, but I shakily made my way back to my dressing room, where I had to seize a basin and be sick again. I sagged down to the floor, weakened and wrung out like a dishcloth. I didn't think I could stand up again. You know what it's like when you have a bad case of influenza?

This was worse.

Across Paris, in Frau Levy's boarding house, Sarah Steiner was suffering from the same symptoms. She died before morning. That is what cholera does. A person can be healthy one day and dead the next.

I sat on the floor of my dressing room for a very long time. I was exhausted. I was sure that if I got up, I would only fall down. Although the Opera house is full of people, parts of it are almost deserted, and there was no one near to hear me. I needed help, and I knew it.

My voice sounded feeble and cracked when it came out. "Ghost? I need help. I'm sick—." I was shaking with cold, although the building was warm. I was as chilled as if I were sitting on an ice floe in a winter river. I gagged again, but I was so empty that not even bile came up. "Ghost?"

"Katherine?" He sounded surprised, and quite nearby, if that meant anything when speaking of a telepathic ventriloquist.

"Yes," I said, gratefully. "I'm sick. I need help. I'm in my dressing room." I was so weary that I leaned my head to the side, against the full length mirror. As it happened, the mirror was Erik's concealed door, and when he opened it, I toppled over onto his feet.

"Katherine!" he gasped.

As I was looking up at him from floor level, my first impression of him was that he was tall, tall as an elm, tall as a tower. "Ghost." I mumbled, and tried to get up on one elbow, but found I couldn't.

He bent over, scooped me off the floor, and set me down in the room's single chair. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm sick—and I'm so cold." I was shivering and my teeth were chattering.

He was wearing evening clothes, and had dark hair, as Meg had described him, and as he touched my face gently, I was looking directly into his.

Even as sick as I was—and I was miserable— it registered on me that he was handsome. He wore a mask that covered a third of his face, and not a conventional mask, either. If you place a hand over only one eye, you will have an idea of what was covered.

"Your forehead is like ice—and your lips are blue. Are my hands warm or cold?" he anxiously inquired.

"Warm." I was so tired…

"Dear God. You _are_ ill," he said, with horror in his voice. He sniffed the air. "—and you've been sick."

"Yes," I agreed, and I meant to ask, 'Can you get help?', but he picked me up, wrapped me in his cloak, and carried me through the mirror door.

I have very little idea of the route he took, but it was not a public area of the Opera House. There were a lot of narrow corridors, and then there were stairs. At one point he paused and said, "That would take too long," and turned sharply. All I could see was part of his shirtfront. It took a concerted effort on my part to turn my own head, and see out.

As he strode, he took us from pools of darkness through patches of light, over and over. I think he might have been pyrokinetically lighting and extinguishing candles or torches as we went. I looked up at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glowed yellow like Kurt's, but in the light they were green or blue.

"You have cat's eyes, Ghost." I whispered.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

I repeated myself, and added, "What's your name?"

"Erik," he replied.

"Just Erik, or Erik Something?"

"Erik— Dantés."

His hesitation convinced me he had simply chosen 'Dantés' on the spur of the moment, but I said nothing about it. It would have taken too much exertion.

We suddenly entered a room which bent and fractured light oddly, and then passed into a living room, if a room can be a living room when it is dominated by a large pipe organ, has a ceiling like a cave, and is curtained like a stage on one side. I could smell water, and it was as chilly as a grave. I shivered some more.

"This is my home," he said.

"Does it have a washroom?" I asked. It was not an idle question.

I was continually sick, repeatedly sick, for hours. I wish I could say it was all a merciful blur, and that I can't remember the details clearly, but that would be a lie. I could keep little down, and I was aching and cold. It was a wretched time, for me and for him.

He did everything possible, heating bricks, tucking me into a bed which was _not_ intended for an invalid—it would have been right at home in the Hellfire Club—, helping me get up and down, bringing me what seemed like quarts of hot sweet tea, but I got worse.

I had to ask him to help me get my street clothes off—they were in the way, and my corset was an additional source of discomfort. He was hesitant; I was embarrassed. We managed. My chemise covered me as thoroughly as any nightgown could.

Anyone who would have found me enticing right then would have to be deeply disturbed in his mind. I am sure I looked the way I felt—and I smelled worse.

I lost track of time. I was not completely rational at times, and I clung to his hand and made him swear, over and over, that if I died he would go to you and explain what happened. He swore it, and cried as he did. He cried as a man cries, from a deep well of pain.

After about twelve, or perhaps twenty hours, he was afraid enough to go for a doctor. I somehow got up to protest against his leaving, promptly fell, and rolled. My foot splashed in water—I was caught on the edge of an underground cistern or reservoir.

Erik retrieved me, wrapped me up in the bedding, and carried me into another room, where he lay me down again, wedged in somehow so I couldn't roll, and blocked me from sitting up with a plank.

"I will come back," he insisted, with agony heavy in his voice, "I will return as quickly as I can, but you _must _have a doctor!" I was begging him not to let me die alone. He left another large mug of tea where I could reach it, and went out.

I could only see straight up, into a cluster of satin draperies. I waited for an interminable time, until I heard a peevish male voice, a stranger's voice, say, "What place _is_ this?"

Erik's face and the stranger's face appeared in my field of vision, and the man, who was the promised doctor, took my wrist. I would have said something, but it would have taken so much effort to move any muscle associated with speaking that I decided to wait until later.

"You would have done better to fetch a priest, m'sieu. She is already cold clay." said Dr. Peevish. (I don't recall his name. Peevish suits him.)

"N-", I forced out. I meant to say, 'Not a priest, a rabbi.'

The doctor jumped. "Mon Dieu—she is still alive!"

"Yes!" Erik snarled.

"Do not blame me for being momentarily mistaken, m'sieu Masque. I am not accustomed to finding living patients who are already in their coffins." He sounded scandalized.

I looked left and right, and saw where I was. It had high wood sides—and satin lining. I looked up at Erik. Thoughts of the Hellfire Club went through my head—along with the rumors I've heard about places where, for enough money, a girl will take a cold bath before getting into a coffin, and then lay perfectly still and silent, no matter what her client does….

He might have read my mind. Perhaps he was only reading my face.

"_I_ sleep in it. Alone." Erik explained.

No wonder the doctor sounded disapproving. The whole situation must have looked flagrantly indecent.

It was surprisingly comfortable, for a coffin.

The doctor was taking my temperature, checking my eyes, and counting my pulse. "Tell me," he inquired. "Are your—movements like water, with grains of rice in it?"

I nodded.

"Then it is cholera. The corpse-like face and hands—the glassy, sunken eyes—her extreme low temperature—she really ought to be in a hot bath! Her lassitude—and look!" He reached down and pinched the skin on the back of my hand. I rolled my eyes to see it.

The fold of skin stood up even when he took his hand away. "Her skin is loosened from her flesh."

"How do you cure it?" asked Erik, through gritted teeth.

"Cure it? It is a matter of hours." blinked the doctor. He was a rabbity little man with round glasses and a salt-and pepper mustache.

"Then give her the medicine!" commanded Erik.

"You misunderstand. I am very sorry, Mademoiselle. Turn your thoughts to God. You will see Him soon—Aaack!" Erik seized him by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the wall behind my head.

I might have been disturbed by this, but of course around Xavier House such scenes are quite common, especially when Logan is in residence. The important thing to do is distract the aggressor before the victim is dead.

"You should not say such things, M'sieu Doctor. Not everyone dies of cholera. _She will not_ die of cholera. How do I treat it?"

"Geckk!" was all the doctor could get out. I summoned up all my strength, and managed to touch Erik's elbow. He let go of the man, who fell bodily to the floor and wheezed a little.

"You—you're mad!" the doctor observed, accurately.

"Yes. The treatment?"

"Purges. Emetics. Bleeding…"

"That's nonsense!" fumed Erik. The word he used was not 'nonsense', but I refuse to write what he did say. "Even I can see she's dehydrated, and you want to aggravate the problem? What is the usual cause of death from cholera? Doctoring?"

"Heart failure." said the little man, with heat. "Why, I do not know."

"Electrolytes." I croaked. Both men cast startled glances at me. "We studied biological science at Xavier House. Th' body's—like a galvanic battery. Body fluids—are like th' acid. Not right—no charge flows. S'how dead frog jumps when y' galvanic shock it. Same energy. No charge—heart stops." Have I ever thanked you for the comprehensive education you provide at Xavier House, Professor?

"Now that, I can comprehend." snapped Erik. He was mad at the doctor, not at me.

"Then you might have spared me from being dragged here like this!" returned the doctor. "That's nothing but modern quackery, anyway."

"And when was the last time you read a new medical text?" Erik bit out. "You have been as useful as you can be. Here!" He thrust a wad of francs at the man. "And now—look at me."

I listened as he issued telepathic commands to the doctor, telling him to forget where he had been, what he had done, that he had ever seen either of us. Then he told the man to wait in the living room.

Erik bundled me up with the bedclothes again. This time, he put me in the bathtub, and ran the hot water. He disappeared for a moment, and came back with a glass of honey lemonade. "I keep this on hand. It's excellent for the throat. I thought it would be too acidic for you before, but…" I drank it. He refilled the glass, and made sure I wouldn't slip underwater, before he took the doctor away.

The hot bath finally took away the chill. Erik's house seemed to have an unlimited supply of hot water. I had just about enough strength to turn the faucets on and off.

He returned with supplies. I stayed in the tub. He poured orange juice, more lemonade, and chicken broth into me by the gallon, it seemed, and except for a coughing fit when some went down wrong, most of it went down and stayed down.

That night, he brought an armchair into the bathroom, and slept there, sitting up. It must have been horribly uncomfortable. I know a lot of men who would have been utterly helpless and useless under the conditions of those hideous hours, and a lot of men who just cannot accept that women are not porcelain dolls under the skin—that we perspire and bleed and get sick. Dragon-slaying is over-rated—the ability to face cholera and drive off death is much more useful.

He went out again the next morning, returning with more supplies—and with Madame Giry.

I heard her voice coming from the living room. "May I take this blindfold off now, M'sieu?"

"Yes. She is in the bath…" They were coming nearer. I was contemplating the bathroom ceiling, which was painted a rich lapis blue and spangled with stars. After over twenty-four hours spent mostly in the bathtub, I was making up possible constellations for them.

I heard her gasp of horror, "Oh, Phantom, what have you done? She's committed suicide!"

That got my attention! I looked at the water. It _was_ thick and red, almost like blood. "No—I'm all right. I don't think the coverlet was color-fast." I wrenched up a corner of the quilt that had gone into the bath with me. "If my opinion counts for anything, I think I'm going to live." I was still wearing the same chemise I had on under my corset when I arrived in his house, but it was much the worse for wear, and now was stained an odd shade of red-violet.

"Thank God." Madame Giry sagged suddenly, and Erik provided her with a chair, telekinetically. "Oh!" Furniture that moved on its own could not daunt Madame Giry for long, and after she assured herself that I wasn't immediately in danger of dying, she was telling Erik exactly what she thought of him for bring me down there when I was so ill.

"Twenty seven people died in this cholera outbreak." was his reply. He handed her a newspaper, folded to show a particular article. I did not read it until later—that was how I learned about Sarah's death.

"Wait—what day is it today?" I asked them.

"It is now Wednesday. You were taken ill on Sunday."

"Then where am I going to _live_ now? My landlady, Frau Levy, has very strict rules about staying out all night, and she didn't like me to begin with." It had been the least of my worries up until then, but now the problem asserted itself.

"I think she will have enough to occupy her," said Erik, cryptically. He was, I now know, alluding to Sarah.

"Katherine is correct. Sir, you have acted with the best intentions in the world. You saved her life. I believe you when you say that you have behaved honorably and scrupulously. Katherine might not be well enough to leave here today, but she _must_ come back up, find other lodgings, and get back to rehearsals and performances." she insisted.

Madame Giry continued, "I, myself, will go to this boarding house and collect your things. I will bring back only what you will need immediately, and take the rest home with me. I will tell people that I took you out of there into my home, which is where you will go when you are quite recovered. You can stay with us, at least until you can find other lodgings. Perhaps we will find out that such an arrangement suits us for the long term." She shrugged.

I was glad to have an ally in leaving Erik's house. Not because I was afraid, or ungrateful, or physically uncomfortable, no, nothing like that.

You see, there was only one reason why he would have brought me down there and cared for me so well and so patiently.

Just thinking about what I was going to have to say when the moment came—and I was sure it would come—made me dread it like another bout of being sick.

I will pause here for the moment. I have more to write to you, but this marks the end of my illness, and the beginning of my convalescence. I ask that you not come to fetch me, nor order me home, but respect my judgment, and trust me as you did when you allowed me to come here. You can expect another letter soon; this tale is only half-told.

Yours truly,

Katherine Pryde.

A/N: No time for personalized comments now! Writing like a maniac!


	8. Chess

Excerpt from the Journals of Erik:

I don't know whether or not to call Katherine's apparently boundless ability to tolerate my proximity a symptom of madness—now that she has seen—now that she knows…. I had never imagined _that_ reaction. Nor did I ever dream that the Daroga would act as _he_ did.

If I write it out as it became clear to me, perhaps I will glean some insight from the finished account.

Madame Giry came back with Katherine's clothing and other such necessaries, just as she had promised. She helped her out of the bath, and into a dress of dark wool.

Once she was dressed and able to get about without help, even if she was still weak, I could finally let go of that terrible conviction that had me in its grip, the conviction that her life, like any candle, would flutter out. Yet, unlike a candle, I could not re-ignite t_hat_ spark with a mere thought.

We passed a quietly pleasant morning. Katherine wrote a letter to her professor; I worked on my re-arrangement of _Giselle. _When she had finished writing, she went around the living room, looking at everything with intelligent interest.

She found the chess set. "Oh, you play _chess!"_ Overt delight sparkled in her eyes.

"Do you mean to tell me that you do?" I knew the answer already, even as I asked the question.

"Red or white?" she challenged. "And I warn you, I beat my professor on a regular basis."

"Ladies first, of course. I'll take red." I demurred.

"It's your funeral. Joking aside—don't deliberately lose the game because you want to please me. I'd rather lose a hard-fought game than win a thrown one, any day."

I set out, therefore, with the intention of winning, but very slowly, so as not to crush her spirit. She checkmated me in seventeen moves.

"Your mind wasn't on the board." she scolded me, as she passed the captured pieces back to me.

It hadn't been, in truth. I had been looking at her. At the curve of her neck as she bent over the board; at the arc of her eyebrows, the delicate contours of her ears. Her ears stick out a little—added to her immense dark eyes, the combination puts me in mind of a young doe fawn.

It is strange—I can look at her, and recall that I have seen women with whiter, finer skin, with more perfect features, with hair of rarer color, women who are famously beautiful, acknowledged as such by all who see them—yet for all of that, there is no more beautiful woman in the world. I would rather look at her than at any other.

As we set up the board again, she suddenly looked up and asked, "You chose the name of Dantés from The Count of Monte Cristo, didn't you? Edmond Dantés was the Count's real name."

"In all honesty, yes, I did." I replied.

"Then it must be a favorite of yours. What do you like best about it?" she asked, as she moved the first pawn.

I moved mine. "Won't talking distract you?" I was glad she did not care to bring up the topic of my real last name.

"Not particularly. I think literary discussions use a different part of my brain than chess does. But if it'll distract you…" She chose a knight and made her move.

It might distract me from admiring her, which evidently used the same part of _my_ brain as chess did. "Not at all. I think it is the best of its kind ever written. At its heart, it's not a revenge story."

She looked up. "I agree. It's a story about justice".

"Yes! Although Edmond manipulates and maneuvers people as we do these chess pieces, although he does terrible things—it is all done to bring about justice on Earth. He is, as he says to Villefort, an agent of a higher power. He never harms a good or innocent person. He goes to great lengths to reward the deserving Morrells, and protects Valentine, despite her father's crimes. He is moved by the pleas of Mercedes, on the eve of his duel with Albert. And ultimately, he himself is rewarded."

"Yes, by Haydée. I was never quite sure about her, though. She finally gets to show some character and backbone by going into that court and testifying so magnificently, and then what does she do? Rips up his will and faints!" She spread her hands and shrugged, with exasperation written all over her face.

"Because she loves him and is afraid he'll be dead the next day! Of course she's upset. What would you have her do?"

"Grab a sword, dress up as a boy, take a horse from the stables, and ride after his carriage in the morning, prepared to disrupt the duel by whatever means she can." Katherine nodded decisively. "Men never write women as we would write ourselves."

"And how would she learn to use a sword and ride a horse astride? Is that what _you_ would do?" I could almost see it….Katherine, the hero, riding off to rescue her lover from the consequences of his own folly.

"If the book were written by a woman, he would have trained her up to it. And yes, that is _exactly_ what I would do. Now if you look at The Three Musketeers, you'll see a female character who does get to do things and take an active role in the story, but since that's just too unthinkable and too threatening, she has to be the villainess."

"You mean Milady de Winter? But she's terrible—vicious, cold, murderous, unchaste." I countered.

"And isn't that a message sent to all the girls who read that book? If you're intelligent, resourceful and capable, you are evil and you'll get your head cut off. And the other girl—Constance—she was planning to be unfaithful to her husband, so she has to die too. It's rough, being female. I was so disgusted with the story as it was, that I rewrote it one summer. I still have it in a trunk somewhere in Xavier House. In my version, Milady is still one of the Cardinal's agents, and not a runaway nun, but a foundling who was a kitchen maid until she stabbed her employer, not fatally, with a paring knife. For good and sufficient reason, too, but the court ordered her branded anyway. She truly loved Athos, and they are finally reunited and happy together. After enough story takes place, of course."

"Of course. But there are a lot of women writers—why not write a new novel with characters who are entirely your own?" I took one of her pawns.

"Hmm. The Professor, who, brave man that he is, actually read the entire thing, asked me the same question. Maybe I will, some day, but I wrote Milady for the fun of it—for practice in writing, too, I guess, and to share it with my friends, but finally just because The Three Musketeers is my favorite adventure story. Dumas got friendship exactly right—just the way it is, if you're as fortunate in your friends as I am." She moved a bishop, and took a pawn of mine.

"Truly?" I studied the board. "Then—tell me. Tell me about them."

She fixed me with a serious look. "You already know that I can make myself intangible. You have powers of your own. You're telekinetic, pyrokinetic, and telepathic."

"I'm _what_?" I had never heard any of those words before. "Taken from the Greek, tele— meaning distant, and kinesis, motion. That's very well thought out. Yes, it's true; I can move things from a distance. Now, pyro means fire—."

"It should really be telepyrokinesis, but usually, the 'tele' at the beginning gets dropped."

"Distant fire motion." I translated.

"Exactly. Telepathy isn't as easy to break down, but it means you can communicate by thought alone. These words didn't even exist until about—six years ago. The leading founders of the Society for Psychical Research in London, Mr. Frederic William Henry Myers, Sir Charles Xavier, and Sir Erich Lensherr, Baron Ware, had to invent words to describe what they were investigating. Sir Charles Xavier is my professor. He started a school on his estate in the country, Xavier House, to take in and teach people with unusual powers and abilities, people like us."

There—there it was, the first indication that her mind had taken refuge in a fantasy that was more real to her than life.

She wove for me a gorgeous tapestry of delusion as she described her friends—Auroré, the beautiful Algerian with cocoa skin and ivory colored hair, whom the heavens obey, who commands the lightning and the winds, and Kurt, the German, furred like a cat, with the heart of a Musketeer. "You'd like them," she assured me.

I liked hearing about them. I can imagine a desperately lonely Katherine, spinning up this imaginary school, where everyone is cherished for who they are, not what they look like, nor their wealth or parents or social standing. It is a particularly beautiful dream.

As fantasies go, hers is a very elaborate construction, surprising in its cohesiveness and its detail. She never contradicted herself—never betrayed a too-hasty fabrication.

She truly believed in what she said.

To finish it all, she smiled very kindly at me, and said, "It's quite all right if you don't believe me."

I responded carefully, with "You must admit it doesn't _sound _very plausible.", and suggested lunch. She readily acquiesced, and took in her first solid food in days. Nothing too difficult for a convalescent's stomach—just chicken soup with vegetables, bread, rice pudding.

There were still delicate smudges of purple under her eyes, and the bones of her face were pronounced. She looked rather younger than her age; instead of seventeen, she looked fourteen. That helped me keep my thoughts away from the carnal.

Once we were back at the board, I reintroduced the topic of literature, where her ideas, although somewhat radical, were nevertheless firmly grounded. "Do you have any other favorite authors besides Dumas?"

She took one of my knights. "A lot of them. Jane Austen, of course. Mark Twain. William Makepeace Thackeray. I don't care for Charles Dickens, but I like Anthony Trollope. He may be my favorite, at the moment."

The loss of that knight put my queen in an awkward position. "What sort of books has he written?"

"He writes novels with several storylines going all at once—not adventure tales or romances, although there are usually love stories in them. The book that won me is The Way We Live Now. It's all about money. There's this horrible girl called Georgiana Longstaffe, who's from a very poor but very aristocratic family, and she has a suitor named Mr. Brehgert. Mr. Brehgert is a widower, has children already, he is middle-aged and not very attractive, but he is extremely wealthy. He's also Jewish. I'm used to finding anti-Jewish sentiments in the books I read—just as I'm used to finding brainless, spineless women in them, but I had thought better of Trollope…"

She paused and took a sip of tea, then continued, "Their courtship progresses, and he asks her to marry him. He promises to be good to her—both personally and financially. She accepts, over the protests of her friends and threats from her family. Then Mr. Brehgert suffers a large financial loss, and he writes to tell her that he won't be able to afford a house in London for a few years, as he had promised, because he has other obligations that must come first—such as his family, and the money he promised to settle on her, so she'd be taken care of if he died. While she's reading that letter, Trollope observes, 'It never occurred to her, that although he was over fifty, and had a family, although he was greasy and butcher-like and a Jew, that she could have trusted herself to him _because he was an honest man.' _That line sent shivers over me. It proved that Trollope knew what he was doing all along, as a writer with insight and genius._"_

It seemed that there was another conversation going on between us, one below the surface. "Do you believe, then, that a person's virtues can overweigh and overwhelm his flaws? I do not include being a Jew as a flaw." I ventured.

"I sure hope so." she answered. "Otherwise there isn't much of a chance for any of us. _You,_ however, with your secret passages and hidden doors, are _not_ an honest man. That's all right, though. I have many notable scoundrels for friends, and I daresay you will fit right in among them."

"Did she marry Mr. Brehgert?" I asked.

"No. She sent back a petulant complaint about the vanished house in London. He realizes what she really is, and the match is broken off."

"How does this fit with your opinions of women in fictions written by men? Do you not want to redeem her, write a Georgiana, as you reinvented Milady de Winter?"

"No. That's the difference between adventure tales and social commentary in fiction form: Miladies de Winter are far and few between in real life, but there are a great many Georgiana Longestaffes."

I moved my rook. "I was hoping you would do that!" she said, and moved a bishop. "Check." I had the devil of a time extricating my king. She did not win _that_ game, but it was not an easy win for me.

And in all that time—not once while she was ill, nor all that day, did she ever mention my mask. She spoke to me, looked at me, permitted me to touch her hands when I passed her a cup, or when we traded captured pieces, and never looked away. Nor did she flinch. She acted as if…as if I wore no mask, and needed none.

After we finished that second game, I showed her around the rest of my house. What came out then, her tale of the boy who impulsively married someone else, had the ring of truth about it. Her grief was too real, the subject too painful to be the product of her fancy. So I must be patient, and wait for her heart to mend? I can be patient— as patient as she is honorable.

She went to lay down for a couple of hours before dinner; she tires easily. Although she is improved, it is less than thirty hours since she was dying.

Her appetite for dinner was good—she ate most of the chicken, but refused the crayfish. Apparently Jewish dietary law forbids them.

(Note to self: must find an unbiased reference book explaining Judaism to non-Jews. Clearly necessary. Doubt libretto for _La Juive _would be of any use.)

After dinner, I went to fetch the Daroga. "He has been my friend for some time, and although he is a busybody by profession, I want him to know I am not holding you prisoner here. I hope you do not mind?"

"Not at all," she replied. "This is your home, and you should have whatever guests you please. If his mind needs to be set at ease, of course I'll talk to him."

As I poled the boat and climbed the stairs, I found I was actually anticipating the Daroga's visit with pleasure. I wanted to see him, and I was looking forward to making him known to her. I was happy, and I wanted to share that with someone, someone who knew something of my despair.

I certainly did not anticipate what was to follow.

He was waiting in the third sub-basement, where I had left him that note.

"Hello, Daroga," I said fondly. "It's still five minutes until the hour of seven. You're early."

"I know you too well to think you would wait were I more than a minute late, and I did not want to risk that."

"Punctuality is politeness, and I cannot bear incivility. But before you can take one step along with me, I must insist you wear this over your face."

I handed him a domino without eyeholes. A blindfold would be unreliable with a man of the Daroga's stamp. He would contrive a way to peer at his feet. I could not have that.

"Even between us, you insist on so much secrecy," he remarked sadly, as he slipped it on.

"Especially between us." I answered. "You know more than any other, Daroga, and so you are dangerous. There is only one who I would take to my home without these precautions, and that is she who I am taking you to meet."

In a day or two, I'll take her all over the opera house, using my private corridors and doors. Not that she would need to use the doors—they will be no more to her than mist.

"Ah. Yes. This Katherine Pryde. Erik, I do not understand."

"What is there to understand? To put it simply, I have met the woman I intend to marry. Watch your step—there are steep stairs ahead…"

I would not permit him to remove the mask until he was in my living room. He blinked in the candlelight for a moment, and then he saw her, where she sat on the sofa, with a book in her hands, and he bowed to her.

"She is only a child!" he said, without any greeting or preamble.

"I am nearly eighteen." she refuted him.

But she did look very young, with her hair down and her face innocent of paint. I had given her my robe, which she wore over her dress to keep off the drafts, and as she is so much shorter and smaller than I, its shoulders were sliding off of hers, the sleeves were ludicrously long, and the skirts threatened to trip her.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. It is only that I am concerned—Might I not have a word with her alone?" he turned to me.

"I would prefer to stay." I told him. "I know you, Daroga, and I won't have you bully her, or ask her questions so rapidly that she confuses the answers. Katherine, you can answer him, or not, as you choose and how you choose. I am not afraid of any honest answer you can give."

She shrugged, and grabbed at the robe, which tried to slither off her shoulders. "Ask away." she said to him.

"Thank you." He paused, and frowned. "Did you come here of your own choice?"

"Not—exactly. I asked him for help, and he provided it by carrying me here and taking care of me while I was sick with cholera."

"Cholera?" he asked, startled by her assertion, and cast a questioning glance at me.

"Yes. One of the most prominent doctors in Paris diagnosed it." I answered.

"I'm much better now." she chimed in.

"I am glad of that. Do you _remain_ here of your own choice?" was his second question

"Yes, for the present." she gave him in reply.

"And how long shall that be?"

"Until I no longer feel dizzy when I stand up."

"Do you know what his intentions are toward you? Do you know that he has said he intends to marry you?" he pressed.

"He has made his intentions clear." She said it levelly and coolly.

"Are they distasteful to you?"

"I cannot help what he intends. I can't see that it is any business of yours to ask me that. You are not my friend—and you aren't talking as if you were _his_ friend, either."

"Are you afraid to give an honest answer in front of him?" His voice gentled as he asked that.

"No. I've made my feelings known to him."

"Do you have friends, Mademoiselle? Or family? I am prepared to help you to leave here, and go to them this hour, if you wish it."

My tolerance was beginning to give way to outrage. The answers she made him were keeping my rage in check, as she deflected and parried his questions.

"I have friends, M'sieu. I am in the home of one of them right now. I thank you for your offer of help, in the spirit with which it was made, but I do not need it."

"You say that he is your friend. Do you know of his powers? They are fearsome and supernatural. He is a dangerous man. I have seen him kill more people than you have seen years of life. Do you know what he has to hide under that mask?"

"I have a _tolerably_ good idea of just who he is, underneath it." She was becoming angry, and in her that came out in a voice grown quieter, softer, more intense.

"Daroga, the ice you are treading on is growing perilously thin. Be careful." I warned him.

"I see. She doesn't know. But I believe she should—!" and with that, he turned and ripped the mask from my face.

She gasped.

I used both my physical arm and my mental blow to knock him across the room, and I might have had my hands on his throat and been beating his treacherous brains out against the floor—except that she was there already, and she had my sword.

It was stuck clear through his chest. She held the hilt in both hands.

He saw it—and he has cause to recognize my sword when he sees it—and gave a sick moan. His face had turned a peculiar color. But no blood was marring the pristine white of his shirt, not yet, nor was there blood puddling on the Karastan carpet under him.

She was using her own power, and as he realized he was uninjured, she spoke to him.

She said, "The trick is that _he_ isn't doing it. _I_ am. And if I were to let go, you would be in _terrible _trouble. But not for very long. You say he is dangerous? Well, _I_ am dangerous too. You say_ he_ has fearsome and supernatural powers? These are mine. And if he is a killer, it may be that I have not lived to be almost eighteen without killing anyone. I don't think you can have any more questions to ask me, M'sieu. I _know_ I have nothing more to say to you." She withdrew the sword, and dropped it on the floor beside him.

Then she turned to me.

I raised my hand, to cover my face, to conceal myself, but she stopped my arm, and said, softly, so softly, "If you came down to breakfast at Xavier House, just as you are, the only thing anyone would say is, 'Good morning, Erik. Would you care for some coffee?' Although they might offer you kippers as well… I think I've overexerted myself this evening. Will you excuse me?" She walked through the wall as she went—just to make the point clear to the Daroga.

He was a very unhealthy color. "Oh, Daroga. It's a good thing you're already down on the floor—because you ought to kiss the ground where she stood and thank her for saving your miserable life. Hand me my sword, would you?"

He did, and got to his feet, very carefully, unsure of his footing—unsure of anything.

"I did tell you, Daroga, in my note, that she was not of your kind, did I not? Do you believe me now?"

"Yes. Although I did not—I could not—and you intend to marry her? What sort of_ children _will you get between you?_"_

"I don't know, Daroga. But I hope—and so should you, and all the world as well—that they take after their mother."

With that, I took him back up to the surface world, and warned him, as I left him, not to meddle with my affairs again, and that henceforth, we were no longer friends.

When I returned, she was waiting. "I didn't want to go to bed without saying good night, first." she said. "There are things that we need to talk about—but nothing that can't wait until tomorrow. I haven't the energy now… Good night, Erik." With that, she stepped up to me—_and she kissed me on the cheek._

My arms went around her. It was involuntary—it was an instinctive impulse. I held her in my arms, and she did not flinch, she did not struggle—I kissed her on the forehead, and I let my lips linger there. Never, never before had anyone given me what she gave, so freely and effortlessly.

If she is mad, let her never grow sane.

My body woke into sudden, _painful_ arousal at her closeness, but I did not heed its insistence. It would have been so wrong… I could never scare her, I could never hurt her.

"Erik—you're squashing me." she finally said, and I let her go.

"Good night, Katherine." I said.

"Good night."

That was about three hours ago, now.

My cheek is still warm from her kiss.

* * *

A/N: Next time, Kitty's side of the story. 

Still writing, but let me say: Pickledishkiller, you have an _awesome_ pen name. Can these be virtual Toll-house chocolate chip cookies?—and you're welcome!

Lexi—Kitty has been a fav of mine since I started reading the X-men—and recruiting her means I get to avoid the accusation of "Mary-Sue" Heh-heh-heh (evil laugh!)

Hobbit babe: Yes—and I thought it would be one of Erik's favorite books! Good call!

All my lovely reviewers—Comments keep me inspired! Inspiration keeps me writing! It's a vicious circle!


	9. Convalescence

(A/N: The details about suitable wedding dresses and the racy bits of The Count of Monte Cristo are true. The description of Erik's face is my own, and applies only to Mutant! Erik, who is a combination of several sources plus additional materials. There's going to be a Fantastic Four movie out in July, and several members of the FF and Dr. Doom are mentioned here. This author thinks that Erik was part of the original inspiration behind Dr. Doom and so Doom is inferior. Plus Doom has worn full plate armor for twenty years, and that's just not good.)

* * *

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Professor Charles Xavier, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England

Dear Professor, and all my dearest friends:

My last letter ended, and this one begins, when I was finally well enough to get out of Erik's tub. The first thing I did, once I was dry and dressed, was write that brief letter to you.

"It hasn't been that long since I posted my last letter," I explained to Erik, "but I correspond with six people on a regular basis, four of whom live on the same estate. They've come to expect at least one letter from me every couple of days. As the purpose of this letter is to _keep_ them from worrying, I'm not going to say, 'I almost died of cholera, but the Opera Ghost is nursing me back to health, and by the way, I've been living in his bathtub.' I've gotten this far in my life without ever winding up in a lunatic asylum, and I'd like to keep it that way."

He laughed. "My desk awaits you." He led me to that corner of his large living room, showed me where the stationery was kept, and retreated to the pipe organ and started to play.

Writing the letter didn't take that long, but there was a lot to look at on his desk. He had a scale model of the Opera House's interior on it, with the stage set for Le Nozze, and it was populated with little wax figurines. I could recognize the principal singers—La Carlotta, Piangi, Fonta, and others—and directly in center stage was the figure of a brunette dancer, in costume for Le Nozze, with a dark green sash and kerchief. I had been the only dancer who wore a dark green sash and kerchief. The figure was meant to be me.

That placement was significant and symbolic. For him, I occupied center stage.

That made my heart hurt. I didn't want to have to say, _"I don't love you. I'm sorry. I love someone else. His name is Peter Rasputin. He should have married me, but he married someone else. He's not as intelligent as you are. He's not as talented as you are. He married someone else. Despite all of this, I still love him. You have my gratitude. You have my undying friendship. I already gave my heart."_

I was not looking forward to making that speech, but at least it didn't seem as if I would have to make it right away. I was grateful for any stay of execution, so to speak.

I couldn't find an envelope without black borders, and anyway, the seal he used was a deeply incised death's head that looked as if it would use half a stick of sealing wax every time he wrote a note. In the absence of any less funereal way of readying my letter for the mail, I simply folded it and left it on his desk.

I took the time to survey my surroundings in detail, and there was a lot of detail to take in. I have been in caves before, and I'm certainly familiar with elegant living rooms, but this was the first example I've seen where the two were combined.

It was illuminated by dozens of candles—another proof that he was pyrokinetic. Only someone who was able to ignite and snuff them with a thought would use all those candles. Any other person would have to spend several hours every day lighting and dowsing them.

The furniture was uniformly dark, heavy and ornate. There were several full-length mirrors, but they were covered with drapery—only a glint of reflected light showed around the edges. It gave the room the air of a house in mourning. There was a thick carpet of obvious quality on the floor. It was beautiful—but it was also something like a stage set. It was arranged to be seen at its best from the underground lake, which lay behind heavy velvet curtains that kept in the warmth and kept out the draft when they were closed. Again, it was like a stage set—with the fourth wall being the curtain.

The focus of the room was not really the décor, however. The focuses were on the various workspaces—the organ, the architect's drafting table, the desk, the easel—all of which had projects in various stages of completion. None had even a whisper of the dust that tells of abandonment. All of them were works that were currently in progress. I went around to each in turn, being careful not to disturb a thing.

It was somehow familiar, and I knew I had been somewhere like it before—not so much in how it looked, but in what it was—the workplace of a brain that never ceased creating. DaVinci's studio must have been like this, I thought, and that thought led me to remember the time I was lucky enough to visit Dr. Reed Richards' laboratory. Dr. Reed Richards, or Mr. Fantastic, as he is called, has the finest scientific mind of this era. So they say, anyway.

It was possible, then, that Erik could have the finest_ artistic_ mind. It was quite clear that he creates the way most people breathe.

He must have done this all himself, I realized, as I looked around. Brought the furniture down here—installed the plumbing, painted the bathroom ceiling. Everything.

I was listening to him play as I went around the room, and I recognized the tune he was playing. It was from Giselle.

Giselle is a ballet, not an opera. The music is by Adolphe Adam. It isn't performed much these days, but it is one of the classic ballets, and the part of Giselle is one of the greatest any ballerina could ever hope to dance.

Its story is fairly simple, as plots in ballet or opera go. Giselle is a country girl with two suitors, Hilarion, a hunter, and Albrecht, a prince in disguise. Of the two, she loves Albrecht, who is not just in disguise; he is deceiving her, because he is already betrothed to a noblewoman.

When Giselle finds out, she goes mad and dies right on the spot. You might think that would be the end of the ballet, but it's not. It's only the end of Act One.

Act Two is where it gets interesting. There is a whole pack of Wilis, or Vilis or Veelas, as they are sometimes called, ruled over by Myrtha, their Queen. The Wilis are the vengeful spirits of dead girls whose purpose it is to gang up on unescorted men after dark and dance them to death. (Exactly why they do this is never explained.) Giselle comes back from the dead and becomes one of them.

Hilarion, who loved Giselle, visits her grave and falls prey to the Vilis. Then Albrecht, overcome by remorse, comes to lay flowers on her grave as well. Giselle still loves him, and she fends off the Queen and the other Wilis until dawn, to save him.

Erik was working on Myrtha's dance. The problem with the second act of Giselle is that the music doesn't live up to the action. It should be spooky, tense, and atmospheric, and instead it is pretty and genteel.

Erik was trying to correct that. I could tell.

He took the basic melody and made variations— slower and in a minor key, it became a moan; faster and higher, it was a whirling, chattering parody of itself. Legato—and it became a yearning lament for the life Myrtha had lost.

I went over to where he sat on the organ bench, and paused to look over his shoulder, where the original score lay open, next to a pile of papers with his own notations.

I was then seized by one of the strangest, most powerful, and inexplicable impulses I've ever had.

I suddenly wanted to take his mask off.

Fortunately, a more rational part of me said "_Whaaat? You wear a mask when you go on missions. Would you like it if somebody ripped yours off? Besides, there are people out there who would probably **kill **you if you unmasked them without permission. Victor Von Doom, as an example!"_

I was sure Erik wouldn't kill me, but it would be, if nothing else, exceptionally rude of me to do that. I have no idea why I felt such an urge in the first place; it was nothing like me. So I resisted, and in a moment, it passed.

Instead, I said, "I know that music. You're re-arranging Giselle, aren't you?"

He looked pleased. "Yes, I am. I think there's more dramatic potential here than has ever yet been realized."

"Giselle was the second ballet I ever went to," I reminisced. "I was five…From what I've heard so far, your version will be too intense for children so young. Are you doing anything to the first act?"

"I hadn't planned on it, but the more I do to the second, the clearer it becomes that I will have to rework the first as well. It would be excessively disparate if the first act was conventional when the second is as wild and terrifying as I will make it." He sounded very confident—as well he might. He can do it.

"What will you do to the first act, then?"

"I plan to make it genuinely rustic—the music will be played on traditional instruments as a band of country-folk would play it, if they were consummate professionals, that is."

"When the party of nobles comes in, will they have a style of their own?"

"Of course, but only as an entrée. Then it will become a polished harmony against the rustic theme. The nobles don't do much but advance the plot. I don't often improve other composers' works—I'm undertaking this as an experiment, you understand."

"Yes—I hope this isn't just going to be an intellectual exercise. I'd love to see it—or better yet, be in it. But people don't seem to want straight ballet these days."

"Madame Giry is of the opinion that the right prima ballerina would change that."

"Maybe so, but La Sorelli isn't the one." I opined.

"Sorelli isn't who she has in mind."

I didn't want to hear about who Madame Giry thought would change the world of ballet, so I asked, "What are your own works like?"

He said, "They have never yet been produced, you understand—My current original work is Don Juan Triumphant, but that's not ready to be heard yet, but since you will undoubtedly be familiar with Shakespeare…_Now is the winter of our discontent.._."

He began to _sing_ the famous soliloquy that begins _Richard III,_ Shakespeare's tragedy of the brilliant and deformed Richard of Gloucester, who because, as he says, he is not a man to be beloved, lies and murders his way to the throne of England.

His voice—his voice was indescribable. It was pure, expressive, flexible and powerful. It is the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. It was devastating. I had to sit down, right where I was, on the organ bench next to him. It made me feel weak in the knees. I felt like lying down on the floor and closing my eyes so as to concentrate better. I cannot do justice to it with any possible written description. I can't really comment on the music—his voice _was_ music.

"…_.and therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair, well-spoken days. I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days."_ he finished.

I sat there for a long moment, and finally managed, "I haven't the words. That was—and you are—I can't say it."

"Thank you." he said.

He seemed to be made uneasy by my nearness—I had noticed it before, but sitting crammed against his shoulder, as I was, seemed to intensify it. I cast about for a reason to move away—and spotted a beautiful chess set. The pieces were ivory, half left in their natural color and half of them dyed red. With relief, I suggested that we play.

During the first game, I used the silence to think long and hard about my host, and about the mask he wore.

As I said before, he was—and is— handsome. Whenever I decided his eyes were blue, not green, they turned grey. In the dark, they glowed yellow. He has a beautiful smile, and nice, even, white teeth.

The mask, which was white and made of molded leather, covered a third of his face. It started at his forehead, bisected his nose, and then curved slightly to cover not quite half of his upper lip, before coming to a point just above his jaw. It extended beyond the hairline at the brow and the side of his face, as well.

As a means of concealing his identity—the usual function of masks— it was utterly useless. Therefore it must, I reasoned, serve some other purpose, and that purpose must be to hide some abnormality.

While I was (naturally) curious about it, I wasn't nearly curious enough to remove it without his permission. Perhaps the impulse I had felt earlier was a subconscious desire of his, which he was projecting telepathically, but that was not enough for me. If he wanted me to take his mask off, he would have to say so, or, better still, _tell_ me he wanted to show me his face.

As it was, he hadn't mentioned his mask at all. I decided that I was not going to be the one to bring it up. What ever he might look like underneath it, he was still a very attractive man—and although he had character flaws, he also had intelligence—to say the least— talent, and the capacity for great kindness to help make up for them. That was before I realized that there was something very wrong, deep down inside him.

I won the first game. From the opening play, it took only seventeen moves until I said "Checkmate", but he _wasn't_ taking me seriously. He will not make that mistake again. He was struck dumb with consternation for a moment.

As I passed his pieces back to him, our hands brushed. I thought nothing of it, but it made him jump. It bothered me. If he had used that contact as a preliminary to further promiscuous hand-touching, or even progressed to try holding my hand, it would have been one thing, but this jumpiness on his part was—odd.

I was so uncomfortable that I started a conversation to fill what would otherwise have been an awkward silence.

We talked about books while we played, and also about Xavier House and (of course) about the people in it. I had the distinct impression that he didn't believe all that I said.

We took a break for lunch, and afterward talked books some more while we finished the game. He won, but I made him sweat for it.

Then he took me on a tour of his house, some of which I was already familiar with, and some of which I hadn't seen yet.

Professor, you've sometimes spoken of how you would like to have a room where you could pit us against threats and challenges in a controlled setting, a _danger room_, as it were. I can tell you that your dream is entirely possible and can be made a physical reality. I have seen Erik's Chamber of Confusions.

On the night he brought me down to his house, we passed through a room that bent and fractured light. That was the Chamber, and it consists of a room full of mirrors in combination with an array of devices, some of which produce illusions and some of which hide snares. It is Erik's final line of defense against intruders breaking into his house through the back way, and it is always primed and ready.

He tells me that occasionally someone, by accident or by design, does blunder in there. Except for one incident when he had left a rope lying around, after a couple of hours of disorientation, the intruder either passes out on his own, or Erik chloroforms him and removes him to the Rue Scribe, where he wakes up in the gutter with a blinding headache and a telepathic command to forget about where he was.

The unfortunate rope incident resulted in the intruder's suicide. Erik said that he was highly inconvenienced by the corpse—much more so than he was bothered by the death. That bothers _me_. He also say he has various other traps scattered around his 'private corridors and entrances' to ensure his safety—and mine.

I saw his library—an immense cavern full of shelves, with a ladder to reach the less accessible parts—his pantry—and learned he gets his food from a local restaurant with which he has an arrangement, as he owns two-thirds of the business. I saw his wine cellar, and a storeroom full of gunpowder left behind during one of the revolutions. He says he is not sure what to do with it, and that it does no harm where it is.

But of everything that he showed me, the most striking and important by far was a mannequin that stood in a curtained alcove, and he hesitated for a moment before he threw back the concealing fabric with a flourish.

The mannequin was female. It was my height, and had a brown wig styled like my hair. It was dressed in a beautiful white gown, and enveloped in a wedding veil as delicate as an exhalation of mist.

_Oh, no_, I thought, and I said the first thing that came into my head. "That's not a wedding dress, you know." Because it wasn't—it was a ball gown. It was very low cut, had only the tiniest of puff sleeves, and left the arms bare.

He looked at the gown in surprise, and blinked. "It's not?" he asked, stupidly.

My brain frantically began to work several times faster than normal. _This man lives in a hole in the ground. He wears a mask all the time and haunts an opera house for a living. How many weddings can he have been to? He's probably only read about them, and he's read that a wedding dress is usually a beautiful white gown, worn with a veil. I don't want to point his ignorance out to him. He deserves better than that from me._

My next statement came out without so much as a pause. "Not for an English wedding—or a Jewish one—and those are the only sorts I'm familiar with. All English weddings have to take place before noon, by law," (which used to be true, but isn't anymore, so I didn't tell him that) "and this is an _evening_ gown, not a morning gown, so it would be wrong for the time of day. And a Jewish bride is required to dress very modestly. If a Jewish girl even suggested standing under the canopy in a gown that bared so much, her mother would have heart palpitations. Real ones."

"The canopy? Not before an altar?"

"No. Jewish weddings are quite different from Christian ceremonies. I do recall, now, that in Madame Bovary, Emma wanted her wedding to be held at midnight, by torchlight, so I suppose this would be proper for a French bride, if that was the case." (It was no such thing, no wedding dress is _ever_ that naked, but it was a reply that didn't make him seem like a fool.)

And it redirected him from the unsafe topic—if I would be willing to stand under a canopy with him if it were a more _modest_ dress— to the safer subject of literature.

"Madame Bovary?" he asked. "Forgive me, Katherine, but isn't that a rather improper book for a young and unmarried woman? Although—"he said, as if it had just occurred to him, "so is The Count of Monte Cristo."

"You mean that just because it has hashish, adultery, and two girls in love with each other, it's improper? I don't know what could possibly give you _that_ impression."

"Has no one supervised your reading at all?"

"On the contrary," I replied, "Professor Xavier insisted that we should always be reading something for pleasure, outside of our assigned materials. We had to keep reading journals, and be prepared to discuss everything we read, intelligently, with him once a week. Beyond that, we were only restricted by the limits of our intellects and our capacity for embarrassment. No one would read _anything_ they were too embarrassed to discuss. One boy has a copy of Fanny Hill, (which I understand is _extremely_ filthy), that he daren't even open, because the Professor would make him _talk_ about it."

Erik was looking at me with concern. "I only hope…", he began, but he let it trail off.

We were still standing in front of the beautiful not-a-wedding gown.

"You are too intelligent not to comprehend my meaning—"

"Don't!" I cut him off. "I don't want to hear it!"

"Not—from me?" he asked, in a very low and quiet voice.

"Not from _anyone_! Do you know why I'm here, in the ballet corps of the Opera Populaire?"

"I had not thought about it." he admitted.

"Back in June, I got a letter—Look, can we go in the living room and sit down? I'm going to need a handkerchief. I'm going to need half a dozen—and I'm sick to _death_ of crying!"

My prepared speech, simple and dignified as it was, was no help at all. Once I was provided with tear-mops and seated on the sofa, with Erik on a chair across from me, I began. I will leave out all my sobbing.

"His name is Peter Rasputin. We met when he was nineteen and I was thirteen. I fell in love with him immediately. Don't say I was too young. Don't say it was only a school-girl's puppy-passion. It was love and it was _real_. He was, he is, tall and handsome and good. Genuinely good. And he loved me, too—at least, he used to…

"We came to an understanding. We would wait until I was eighteen before we even announced our engagement, and marry six months later. Until then, I would be no more to him than another sister—although sometimes—It never got further than kissing. He was _honorable_. He was good.

"He's an artist. A professional art-restorationist, anyway, and he can do murals in the antique styles. So he travels a lot, to work in people's homes, and in museums. He's very good, so he's in demand all over Europe. Six months ago, he went to Turkey. I was just beginning to think about bride-clothes, when I got that letter.

He married someone else. A girl from a hill-tribe in Turkey. Her name is Ezadji—isn't that a pretty name? Sometimes I wonder what she must look like…He doesn't speak her language. She doesn't speak any of his—but he fell in love with her, and married her only three days after they met." I was aware that my voice was getting a bit high and I was talking too fast, so I paused for a moment.

"I had no idea." he said, blankly.

I continued, deliberately lowering my voice and speaking more slowly. "I wrote back, and said everything I should have said. I wished him happy. I said it was silly of him to think he was hurting me. I set him free—and it nearly killed me to write it."

"I had no idea." he repeated himself.

"I love him still. I know I should let go. I know he is married. I know he no longer loves me. I even know part of the reason I fell in love with him so fast and hard is that I had just lost my family. They're not dead. Only lost to me…It was my powers. I couldn't control them at first. They knew. They saw. They couldn't throw me out or lock me in my room, because I could just walk through the doors. When the Professor came, they couldn't get rid of me fast enough. They signed the papers granting him guardianship and they covered the mirrors for me."

"Covered the mirrors?" Erik glanced at the covered mirrors that were scattered around the living room. "I don't understand."

"It's a Jewish custom. When a member of the family dies, you cover the mirrors."

"I see."

"I've never stopped loving my family. They didn't answer my letters. To them, I'm dead. It doesn't matter. I still love them. He married someone else. I still love him. It doesn't matter. My guardians sent me here because they were tired of my moping around. It doesn't matter. And now—and you…" I paused for breath, and to wipe my eyes yet again.

"Katherine, I am so sorry—truly. But I am not like that boy. If you would consent to be my wife, I would not..."

I cut him off, again. "You say that now. But you've never met Jean Grey. Jean Grey is utterly beautiful. She is this century's Helen of Troy, and _everyone_ falls in love with her. Or Illyana—she's Peter's sister, and she looks exactly like a snowflake fairy. When we went to dances, she'd make her admirers ask _me_ for a dance before she'd give them one with her, or else I'd sit there all night without one partner." I am aware that I might have been a trifle overwrought.

"Of all the possible objections you could ever make, you have hit on the one which would never have occurred to me: that _I _might leave _you_ for another. I am not laughing at you." he said, quite seriously.

"It isn't only that." I told him. "Your mode of life does not inspire me with trust. And—"

I had not yet had the insight which was to come later, the ultimate insight into what was wrong with him. I had touched on it when I realized he didn't know why that dress wasn't a wedding gown, but I did not know when I continued, "It's far too soon. It's not even October yet. If I could forget five years of love in less than five months, then you shouldn't waste the price of a ring."

He clearly had not considered that. "Then," he said, tentatively, "you are not rejecting my offer—you simply are not now prepared to accept."

"I am neither accepting nor rejecting at this moment—and I won't try to answer for the future. If I didn't say so before, let me say it now. _Thank you for saving my life._ You have my gratitude. You have my undying friendship. I cannot answer for my heart, and I would never marry where my heart is not."

"May I—may I ask if you can foresee a time when you might better know the inclinations of your heart?"

"I—," and I realized that if I did not say something definite, he was very likely to inquire on a daily basis, so I answered, "I need a year. A year from June. A year to mourn the life I would have had."

"More than seven months? No—it is too long. You will forget. You will meet someone else."

"No. I won't. I won't forget. I can't help meeting other men, half the human race is male after all, but even if any of them want to offer for me, I won't listen to them either. My heart is too bruised. And when June comes, I'll give you an answer, before anyone else. If there is anyone else."

"Would you swear to that? Would you?"

"Yes, if you like. You swore to me. I won't say yes to any other offer—but I might say no, should the occasion arise. I swear it on my hope of Heaven, and I believe in Heaven."

"On your hope of Heaven?"

"Yes."

"And you will not forget me in that time—you will let me see you, and speak to you?"

"Erik—believe me. You are unforgettable. The rest goes along with friendship. Why wouldn't I?" His plea to be remembered was worrisome. Erik can and often does go from being as autocratic and commanding as Sir Erich, to being as insecure and in need of reassurance as the littlest, newest student at Xavier House. "Besides, we need to go for best two out of three at chess, so I'll have to come visit."

He smiled. "That is right. And voice lessons. I shall give you voice lessons."

"Well—if you think I have anything worth training. You'll have to teach me how to read music, though. And, of course, you'll have to negotiate with Madame Giry for control of my time."

"She will agree," he said with confidence.

I suddenly felt very tired, and said so. "I would like to lie down for a while. Crying is so draining, and I can tell I'm not fully recovered."

"You mustn't tax yourself," he agreed, and helped me up. "I'll call you for dinner."

It was after dinner that the trouble began.

I have made an enemy, Professor, but I did it to save a life. I exacerbated the worst fears that Sapients have of the Evolved. I showed a full-grown man, a perfect stranger to me, that he was helpless and impotent against the powers of a slightly built girl who was less than half his age and weight—me. But if I hadn't, Erik would have killed him right in front of me.

Over dinner, Erik told me that he was going to fetch a visitor; a man who he said was a friend. He called him the 'Daroga', and said that he wanted to reassure this man that I was a guest and not a prisoner.

If I am any judge, the 'Daroga' was Persian. He was a dark-skinned, dark-haired man with vivid green eyes who wore an unusual hat with his evening clothes.

I firmly believe the 'Daroga' thought he was acting for the best, but there is often nothing as dangerous as a man who firmly believes he is doing the right thing. He began by putting my nose out of joint, because he said I was only a child, and then asked me a series of increasingly impertinent questions. The first few were reasonable enough, but he made it quite clear that he thought I was either very childlike or somewhat imbecilic.

I hardly remember what I said. I was answering him as tactfully and with as much dignity as I could, but my attention was divided between answering him and watching Erik, who was looking more and more offended as the 'Daroga' continued.

I hadn't forgotten the murderous rage Erik had directed at 'Doctor Peevish', you see, and if I was going to have to distract him again, I wanted to be ready. It is a good thing that I was, because the 'Daroga' worked himself up into a righteous froth that culminated when he suddenly ripped the mask from Erik's face.

Every detail of Erik's face is burned into my memory like an image on a photographic plate. The mask concealed a dreadfully cleft palate and harelip, skewed off-center and running like a fissure up almost to his eye. That part of his face had a certain resemblance to a South American fruit-bat I saw a few years ago in the London Zoo.

The skin was transparent and stretched too tightly and irregularly over the flesh it covered, which was livid and discolored. The mask also hid an abnormality of the skull on that side—his cranium is deformed, distended as if pushed out by the pressure of his brain. I recalled the sad little skeletons I have seen of hydro-encephalic babies, whose skulls were expanded outward from the fluid within, until they resemble flowers…

Yes, it was grotesque, rendered all the more so by the contrast to the rest of his face, his otherwise handsome face with its regular features, and the beauty of his eyes. But I have seen much worse.

Garokk, for example, or Mr. Benjamin Grimm, who looks like a pile of orange pebbles. For that matter, I think Mr. Fantastic is positively nauseating to look at when he stretches the way he does. That bloat Mojo is far more repulsive, as is Mortimer Toynbee, the Toad, and then of course, there's Logan when he's been drinking for three days straight.

Or, worst of all, my father's face, the last time I ever saw him. There is nothing uglier than a beloved face at the moment you discover he no longer loves you.

All that I got was a moment to look at Erik, because, with a terrible snarl, Erik struck the 'Daroga' and sent him flying across the room.

I was already in motion. The 'Daroga' was in danger of becoming another 'inconvenient' corpse to be disposed of. It took me three steps to get across the room and take possession of Erik's sword, and one great leap to stand over the Persian where he sprawled prostrate on the carpet. I did not pause. I shoved the sword into his chest.

I was phased, of course. I then proceeded to tell him that, in terms of dangerousness and fearsome power, I was Erik's equal. I left him weak and trembling on the floor, but I left him alive. I doubt he appreciated that. Sir Erich would say that it would have been more merciful had I killed him, but I am not Sir Erich.

The sword was meant for a man who was a foot taller and had a hundred pounds more muscle than I did, and I should not have been phasing so soon after my illness. I could feel a headache coming on, so I dropped the sword on the carpet and turned to Erik, who cringed like a whipped dog and tried to cover his face.

I stopped him. I told him the truth. I told him that if he were at Xavier House, everyone would look him right in the face and smile, bid him welcome and lay a place at the table for him among us. And we would. Even if he can't believe me now, he will someday.

I retreated, then. I had done enough to that poor man on the floor, and the moment of crisis was past. As Erik took him back up to the surface world, I reflected that I understood, now, why Jean married Scott rather than Logan. It wasn't that she couldn't love Logan—it was that she could never be sure she wouldn't come home to find that he'd put the coalman's head through the wall, or find a lot of unexplained blood on the dining-room carpet, or something like that. I only wish I _were_ joking.

I didn't go to bed immediately, although I was tired enough and my head ached. I had theatrically made my exit by walking through the wall, which had been a mistake. I didn't want Erik to think that I had run off to hide after seeing his face. So I waited, and when he returned, I saw that he had his mask on again. He looked lost, until he saw me.

I said good night to him, and then I kissed him on the cheek. I kissed him as I might kiss you, Professor, or Kurt or Auroré, or anyone at Xavier House. I didn't think it out or plan it, I just felt like it, so I did it.

He grabbed me. He grabbed me and held me tight. He had my arms trapped between our bodies, and he crushed me against him. Then he kissed me. On the forehead, and as chastely and reverently as you might. He was shaking, Professor, he was trembling. I could both hear and feel him draw in a breath and have it catch in his throat. His Adam's-apple brushed my eyelid as he swallowed.

Then his tears fell hot and wet on my hair and trickled down my forehead, and still he held me. He did no more than that, and I let him, rather than protest or fight. He wasn't hurting me, and I could have gotten free. I could have phased out of his embrace, or done that trick with the knee and gotten him _there._

I only brought it to an end when I realized it was making him quite uncomfortable, physically, and then I said, "Erik, you're squashing me."

He released me immediately. "I'm sorry!" he said, hoarsely.

"It's all right." I gave him a small smile. It was not the moment to even seem enticing.

"Good night, Katherine."

"Good night," I gave him in return, and I went to bed, but not to sleep, not for many hours. My brain was working at high speeds again. My thoughts went something like this:

I didn't know it would mean that much to him. I didn't know. Most of the time, he seems like a cultured, well-educated man of the world—and then he reveals this bottomless well of need at his core.

How many times do you suppose someone has kissed him? Or let him kiss her? Or let him hold her? And who? And when? Could I possibly have been the first, ever? Certainly I was the first in many years.

He is brilliant beyond genius. _He knows everything about how to behave that can be learned from a book. His house is like a stage set, because that's all he knows. He thinks any fancy white dress can be a wedding dress because he's never been to a wedding._

That was it—that was my insight. He knows nothing about how to be a person.

That can only be learned from other people, people who care about you, people who smile when they see you and care if your belly is full and want to know what you want for your birthday. They also need to tell you who you are, and that you should respect other people, and their lives and their property. They need to admonish you when you're bad, and tell you they love you anyway. They need to control your angers and your destructive impulses, so that when you're grown, you can control yourself. They need to kiss you good night.

If I were to marry him as he is now, it would be a disaster for me and if it was a disaster for me, it would eventually be a disaster for him, as well, because that is how marriage works. To him, the only safe place in the world is that cave under the Opera House, and how long would it be until he tried to confine me to it, too, _for my own good_? I couldn't live that way. I need the sun and fresh air and other people in my life—I need my friends. I need them—and so does he, if he could only be brought to see it.

The only time in one's life that one person can be the entire world is when you're a tiny baby. No matter how much I loved him, as he is now, his need would swallow me up and leave nothing. He needs more than me.

He needs you.

All of you, to teach him, to help him grow.

If I were to return to Xavier House now, he would follow me, but I can only foresee a tragedy if that were to happen. He would fight you to get me back, and against your combined strength, he would lose. And he would set his mind and will against you. I think Xavier House will have to come to him.

Will you help him? For my sake?

There is a deadline approaching. It is June, when I have promised him an answer.

Sincerely yours,

Katherine Pryde.

* * *

A/N: This is the longest chapter yet! I hope this answers your questions, **Lexi-** and thanks for your support. I really appreciate every single review, by the way—and **JP Money**, are you still out there?

**Pickledishkiller**, the cookies were great! In a virtual way, of course—no calories, no carbs! And many thanks as well to **Blazefourpaws and Lor** Cookies all around!

**Hobbit babe-** I'm blushing. Thank you I love your dance….

**Morlock**! Yes, another X-Fan! Have you read the sequence where Callisto kidnaps Angel, back from Clairmont's original run?

This chapter ends what I have been thinking of as Part One of this story—and the next begins Part Two, when the X-Men start showing up. The first visitor, though, will be Sir Erich, in Magneto Goes to the Opera.

You just know he's going to cause trouble…


	10. Magneto Goes To The Opera

Excerpt of a letter from Sir Erich Lensherr, Warefield, Devonshire, England, to Carmine Pryde, Chicago, Illinois, United States of America.

I want to legally adopt your daughter Katherine. I have no living children of my own, and in the event that I die without issue, she and her children would be my heirs. Even in the unlikely even that I might marry again, she would be entitled to a pro-rata share of my estate. It goes without saying that I will provide her with a dowry, and if I approve the match, it will be a substantial one.

Rest assured that I am aware of the peculiarity that caused you to commend her to my friend, Sir Charles Xavier's, care. It does not dissuade me from my sincere desire to adopt her, and if it is nothing to me, it cannot matter to you.

If you will contact my lawyers in the United States…

* * *

Excerpt of a letter from Messieurs Firmin and André, Opera Populaire, Paris, France, to Sir Erich Lensherr, Warefield, Devonshire, England

Dear Sir:

We must thank you for calling to our attention the deplorable attitudes which were rendering Mademoiselle Pryde uncomfortable. We have taken measures to correct the situation. Your charming and talented ward is a valued addition to our ballet corps, and our ballet mistress regards her as a true find. In our new production of Il Muto, in fact, Mlle. Pryde will be playing the title role of Serafimo, which will be a significant advancement of her career here in the Opera Populaire.

It would give us great pleasure if you would attend this as our guest. Please find enclosed the tickets for Box Three on the opening night. If there is any other way in which we can make ourselves useful to you, we would be only too happy to oblige.

As it so happens, we should like to consult you regarding a significant drain on the Opera's financial resources, to the tune of twenty thousand francs a month, plus the loss of rental revenues from Box Five…..

* * *

Letter from Sir Erich Lensherr, (in transit) to Sir Charles Xavier, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England

Charles:

I do not doubt you have also been the recipient of an extraordinary letter from Kitty detailing her illness and convalescence under the care of this 'Erik Dantés'. I am going to Paris myself to get to the bottom of this. I expect I shall be on the boat to Calais by the time you receive this. If I am not satisfied as to what his conduct has been, he will have cause to regret he keeps powder kegs on the premises.

Ironically, the managers of the Opera Populaire sent, in the same post, tickets to her debut in a new production and a plea for help in dealing with their ghost. They shall certainly have it.

I shall write more as circumstances warrant.

Erich

* * *

Excerpt of a letter from Sir Erich Lensherr to Sir Charles Xavier

Dear Charles:

I have arrived in Paris and am putting up at the Hotel -. I immediately took a carriage to the Opera House, sent my card up to the managers, and glanced in at the dancers in their public rehearsal hall. Katherine was among them, but as she was engaged in an exercise designed to bring her foot up to the level of her ear while standing on the other leg, I did not disturb her, but went directly up to the to the first tier. She looked well.

As I climbed the stairs, I saw the managers hurrying to the practice hall in search of me, but I let them pass. I did not yet know what advice I would have to give them regarding their phantom. It might turn out that I could tell them that the ghost had ceased to need money, having become a more ethereal sort of specter. On the other hand, if I liked what I saw, I would do everything possible to advance his interests-both with the managers, and with Katherine.

Box five was only the starting point. I quickly discovered the means by which Erik makes his entrances and exits—a jib door, concealed in a spectacularly tasteless caryatid frozen in an attitude of bondage. It was undetectable to the naked eye—but it had steel hinges and a steel catch on the inside. Steel cannot hide from my senses. It could not have been easier to trip the catch had he placed it out in plain view of the world.

A short ladder led me down into pitch blackness. But what is the Aurora Borealis but magnetism expressed as visible light? I was certain, and ultimately correct, in thinking that as long as I headed downward, I was going in the direction of Erik's lair. I was expecting to come across traps, and I was not disappointed.

I evaded three—a tripwire on a steep staircase, a massive steel beam balanced so delicately that the lightest vibration would have served to bring it down on an unwary head, and a particularly ingenious arrangement involving a false door and a set of spring-loaded cage walls. By that time, I confess I was beginning to feel my age.

Naturally, it was the next one that got me—as the 'trigger' mechanism involved no metal. I was descending a massive spiral staircase, when a step that looked like solid rock turned out to be a cleverly painted thin board that bent under my weight…

* * *

Excerpt from the journals of Erik.

Don Juan T. is not going well. A strain reminiscent of spring-water and the scent of fresh apples is creeping into the music of smoke and musk that I have labored over. Aminta, the minx, still rushes headlong to meet her ruin, but, although the way of virtue is closed to her, and the path to her inevitable degradation and certain damnation lies smoothly open, easy, and full of decadent pleasures before her, she insists on looking for some other way out. Perhaps I should lay it aside.

(E/N—Here the manuscript is marred by a squiggle and blot, where the pen was dropped on the page.)

I heard the stair trap, and my first thought was—'She miscounted the stairs!' Fool that I was, I rushed to make sure she wouldn't drown.

It was not Katherine who floated lazily up out of the oubliette, but a silver-haired man, a stranger in late-middle age, correctly dressed and completely dry. He stood on a disc of metal as if it were a raft and the air was a river.

"Good Morning." he greeted me, as the disc drifted down the stairs until we stood at eye level with one another. "I am Sir Erich Lensherr, Baron Ware. More to the point, I am Katherine Pryde's guardian. You must be Erik."

Yes, she had mentioned this man, I recalled, and more than once. Those pearls…They had been among the pile of belongings Madame Giry brought with her. She had handed a flat leather box to Katherine, saying, "I do not want to take responsibility for these a moment longer than I must. They ought to be in a safe or a bank-box."

"Are they so valuable, then?" asked Katherine.

"They are of the finest." Madame Giry replied.

"May I see?" I moved in, my interest piqued. The box concealed and protected a strand of pearls no lady patroness would have disdained to wear, with an emerald ornamenting the clasp.

"They were a present from my guardian, Baron Ware." she explained. "I should give them back."

"Ah—the managers' banker." nodded Madame Giry. "That explains everything. If you return them, it would be an insult. I would think it over."

Money. This man had the power of money, as well as the other powers he obviously possessed.

I returned to the present moment, and the man who stood before me, extending his hand. "You can take it." he urged, gently, with the hint of a smile about his lips. "It's not red hot, and I, at any rate, have neither claws nor poisonous barbs. I'm apt to take it amiss if you refuse it, you know."

He was mocking me. Well, I could mock him in the same vein. I took it and shook it, "I am _very_ glad to make _your_ acquaintance, m'sieu."

"And likewise, I assure you. I trust you will forgive me for invading the outskirts of your domain. Do not think that Katherine gave away your secrets. She is incapable of betraying a trust. That she mentioned 'Box Five' was yours, and that you lived underneath the Opera House was enough. I worked out the rest on my own. I must compliment you on your security arrangements; you have a decided talent for them. Far too many designers ruin a good trap with overly elaborate construction. However, they are not particularly effective against your fellow Evolved, such as Katherine—or myself.

"Fellow Evolved." I echoed. More mockery. It amused him to pretend I was his equal, this man with his aged but still handsome face, this man whose powers extended through several realms. He had the bearing of a king, more so than any singer in robes and a crown, or any foreign head of state I had ever seen. And he was pleased to mock me.

Then it hit me. "That was how she spoke of the school, Xavier House." Then it was real—all of it was real.

"Yes, Xavier House. My friend, Charles Xavier runs it, and I give him ten thousand pounds a year to help keep him out of the bankruptcy courts a while longer. Katherine was educated there. Charles takes in the lion cubs who have had the misfortune to be born among sheep. They are often frightened, lost, betrayed, and rejected—but nevertheless, they are lion cubs, and must be trained up into lions. Such are the Evolved among the Sapient.

"And here I am, old lion that I am, to determine if a particular young wolf—which is you, my lad—and son, don't bristle at that, for I am at least twenty years your senior— come to determine if you recognize that Katherine Pryde is a lioness, albeit a very young one, and not just a sacrificial lamb."

I could understand that. He was telling me I had no business even thinking of her—she was of the lions—and I, a creature out of her sphere. How long would it be before he would offer me money, to forget her?

I managed an answer, if a stiff one. "Mademoiselle Pryde has no more respectful friend than I."

"Really? I am glad to hear that. If we are to continue this very interesting conversation here on the stairs, tell me so, and I will make myself a chair. Or if you have some other spot in mind, you have but to lead me to it. I can feel a cold draft, and I am no longer a young man."

"No." I knew what would come. More false cheerfulness on his part, and then the humiliating offer of _money_. And at some point I would read his mind, and see what his true opinion of me was, how he regarded me as some abortion of evolution, less than a worm in comparison to beings such as himself—and Katherine.

"No?" He could counterfeit wonderfully well. If I did not know men so well, I would have thought he meant it—that he truly wanted to talk to me, as to an equal.

"I see no point in continuing this conversation. While I do not know if I can compel you to leave, I can make it most uncomfortable for you to stay." I summoned fire, and flung a curtain of it between us.

"Thank you. That takes the chill off my bones. Let it be as you wish. I did impose myself on you, after all. I will just put this back the way it was—and" and he turned the disc of metal back into the grillwork that should have trapped him underwater until he drowned. It pulled apart and re-formed as if it were taffy-candy. "No doubt you will know better than I how to rearm your trap. I bid you good day."

He went back up the stairs.

I should have known.

I don't blame her. Oddly enough, I think her part in this is one of innocence—she never tried to deceive me. I deceived myself. I wanted to think her alone in the world, as I was—as I am. It was easier to think her mad than to imagine the Heaven such an angel came from. Plagues are not allowed into the place of light.

Well, let him return when he will, and any other of her friends. Let them kill me for daring to approach her.

I will not go down to Hell alone.

* * *

A/ N Short chapter! No talk now. Writingwritingwriting! Oooh, a crumpet! 


	11. Sir Erich gives the Opera Managers the B...

More excerpts from a letter from Sir Erich Lensherr to Sir Charles Xavier:

After that exchange with Erik, I retraced my steps, and before long, I had emerged into Box Five once more.

In my absence, a dress, or, rather, a semi-dress rehearsal had begun onstage. Several of the costumes apparently weren't ready or available. Katherine, in satin breeches, a ruffled shirt, and a vest, was moving about the person of a female who was, I first thought, seated on a sofa that was upholstered in a particularly repellant shade of pink, rather like a boiled ham—which, coincidentally, was an apt description of her performance. Then the woman took a step, and I realized that the sofa was her costume, and not a sofa after all.

It was then that the managers discovered where I had gone to ground. They descended on me with gladsome cries and greeted me with excessive fervor, combined with fulsome apologies for having kept me waiting so long, etcetera. It was quite a different reception from the one I had received from the Opera Populaire's _true_ manager. Such is the power of money over those with smaller, weaker minds. They led me off for our meeting.

"This, of course, is the Managers' office," said Monsieur Firmin, self-importantly. It was an office like any number of others I have seen, so much dark and polished wood, inkwells, pen-stands in brass and marble. The table to which they directed me had a great heap of notes piled up in the center. "Please, have a seat. Would you care for a brandy?"

"Thank you, no. Not at this hour." I declined. "Perhaps some coffee, if it is readily available?"

Monsieur André rang for an office boy and issued orders, then took one of the other seats around the table with the evidence of Erik's attention to details mounded on it. "And now, as to the nature of our problem, which is not easily explained—."

M'sieu Firmin broke in. "It would be quite laughable, were it not for the twenty thousand francs—."

Neither seemed able to come right out and say it, so I took pity on them. Otherwise, they might hem and haw all day and never come to the point. "In your letter, gentlemen, you mentioned the loss of twenty thousand francs a month, as well as the revenues from Box Five. In one of her letters Katherine told me that the Opera Ghost demands twenty thousand francs a month, and that Box Five should be reserved for his personal use. It is perfectly clear to me that that you would like my advice on how to deal with your ghost. Or am I wrong?"

"No—you have it in a nutshell!" said Firmin.

The other agreed, but added, "It isn't only the money. He believes he runs the place. More than that, he thinks he owns it!"

"He keeps sending notes!" concluded Firmin. "Infuriating, demanding, incessant notes!"

"And these are some examples?" I indicated the pile.

"Yes. Just to give you an idea…"

The coffee arrived. "I will just have a look at these." I began by picking at random, but I soon started sorting them as I went through the pile.

One pile was for criticisms and praises. "Is 'Carlotta' the woman who was wearing the large pink—costume?" I asked.

"Yes. She's playing the role of the Countess. She's a world-renowned soprano."

"Your ghost doesn't care for her. This is the fourth letter of complaint about her." I commented.

"We're… aware of that." replied Firmin.

Directions on how operas should be cast and staged went into another pile. I began a third of requests for his salary and his private box. The fourth was for denials and denunciations.

I read a few of the more amusing ones aloud. "It was not I who stole those three cases of champagne, and I resent the accusation. '79 was a very bad year for Veuve Cliquot. I would not sully my palate with it. Smell Douvray's breath, and if what he belches smells like a moldy meadow, you will know why. O.G." I chuckled. "The Ghost knows his vintages. '79 _was_ a bad year… 'You are a filthy pig. If you don't cease urinating in the lobby fountain, one night soon I will make you drink it. O.G.' Neither of you gentlemen, I trust?"

"That was addressed to one of our stagehands. Joseph Buquet. Quite a vulgar fellow." André jumped to reassure me.

"So it would seem." The fifth pile, maintenance and physical repairs, showed that Erik knew the opera house like he knew the back of his hand. "The water pipes in the ceiling of the connecting link are corroding and need to be replaced. Use copper, not bronze, and they will last longer this time. O. G." I looked up. "Gentlemen, quite a lot of what I am seeing are not outrageous demands, but sensible, practical statements pointing out what needs to be done, or making valid observations."

"What do you mean?" Firmin asked.

"Listen to this: 'Live animals onstage never fail to distract and detract from the performance. The gratuitous use of sheep in the Act Three ballet from Il Muto is the ultimate example of this. If you must have something for the dancing shepardesses to herd, why not dress up the most junior of the dancers-in-training in fleecy little costumes, and give them some stage experience? Five-and six-year-olds being themselves seem to require enough herding to make it seem realistic. O.G.' He's being facetious, but the idea is not without charm. And this one: 'Chewing chicle-gum is forbidden anywhere on the Opera premises. Violators will incur my extreme displeasure. O.G.' It's a filthy habit, and I don't blame him. Are these all the notes he's sent during your administration? "

"Not all, but most."

"It's enough. Very well." I steepled my fingers in front of me. "Gentlemen, you have asked me for advice. I am now prepared to give it. Are you ready to follow it?"

"Yes!" puffed André.

"To the letter!" affirmed Firmin.

"Here it is, then. First, pay him twenty-_five _thousand francs a month—."

"What?" "You can't be serious?" Their faces were comic with astonishment.

"_And—"_ I let the word hang in the air until they had composed themselves. "Find an office space in this building, at least as spacious as this one, that can be fitted up as handsomely, and designate it as his office. Then you will have somewhere that you can leave notes and messages for _him. _I'm not joking."

"But—why?"

"Because he's the hardest working person in the Opera Populaire. It's entirely true that he appointed himself to his position—which _will_ require a title other than 'Opera Ghost', or even 'The Phantom of the Opera'—but, despite having appointed himself, he clearly is not shirking his duties. He pays the closest attention to every detail, from the piccolo player who needs a better instrument, to the trapdoor with a catch that needs replacing."

"But he's an obsessive madman who does nothing but harass us with ridiculous orders!" spluttered Firmin.

"Ah. There I am afraid I must correct you. He is a genius whose requests are made with the intent of transforming the Opera Populaire into the finest opera house in Europe, the one which will set the standards by which all others are judged. He may be somewhat eccentric—reclusive—and mysterious. But Genius must be allowed a few foibles."

"He is? He will? I mean—what _do_ I mean?" asked André in confusion.

It is so difficult explaining anything to the Sapient, Charles. One might as well explain to a potato.

* * *

Excerpt from the Journals of Erik:

What was he doing? What the _hell_ was he doing?

I see it. 'Good dog. Don't even think of playing with my Kitten, but here's a bone for you instead.'

I was at the office listening post, as Sir Erich Lensherr smoothly explained to the two fools that he thought they should take me seriously.

What was more, they were _listening._

"But what if we lose money following his orders? What if no one comes?" agonized Firmin.

"It has not happened yet. I'm sure he understands that the Opera Populaire must make a profit." Sir Erich was speaking to them differently than he had spoken to me. Rather than veiling his contempt and sounding sincere, he was openly condescending to them.

I'm not sure they noticed. It sounded…familiar to me somehow.

He was speaking to them as_ I_ would.

"But would he use his office?" wondered André.

"Does it matter? The important thing is that he would _have_ an office. Then when the Director of the Academy of the Arts comes by to ask why there's no Meyerbeer on the schedule, we say, 'You'll have to take that up with our….Director of Artistic Development—.'" said Firmin, his voice dawning with inspiration.

"I say, Firmin, that's not bad. 'Director of Artistic Development'."

"—his office is up one level, two doors down on the right hand side'. He trots on up and comes back down, and says, 'He's not in!' We say, 'He's a busy man, but if you leave him a note, he'll answer it!'" Firmin finished his speech.

"And now we can say Box Five is reserved for the use of our Director of Artistic Development—instead of saying it's reserved for the Opera Ghost and feeling like a damn fool." enthused André.

"My God, André—it's all starting to sound _sane!"_

"It's possible I may be doing the Ghost a disservice by setting your thoughts along these lines." mused Sir Erich. "I am quite sure he will be able to cope, however."

How _kind _of him to say so.

'Director of Artistic Development'

Rubbish.

"But how do we go about proposing these changes to him?" worried Firmin.

You already had. Dolt.

Sir Erich's reply proved he was not 'telepathic'. (Damn the man. I am even indebted to him for the very word 'telepathic')

"Put it in writing and leave it in Box Five, along with last month's _and_ this month's salary. According to him, you are a month in arrears at this point. If you are a little short on liquid funds, I can arrange a small advance from my bank. You might also ask him his name. It would only be right to add him to the list of directors on the programs and wherever else they might appear."

"And on a brass plate for his office door, as ours are?" inquired André.

"That would be a thoughtful touch." answered Sir Erich.

There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor, as they stood up.

"Thank you, Sir Erich." gushed Firmin.

"Yes, you've turned the whole situation around for us!" André put in.

Led them around by the nose was more like it.

"If you would truly like to thank me, you might introduce me to Madame Giry." hinted Sir Erich. "I would like to thank her…"

They left the room, and I returned here. I must speak to Katherine. I must find out who else she told, and what she told them. If it is only Sir Erich, I can deal with him. He is only one man, but he _is_ her guardian—she is likely to object if I kill him. Can I give him a mental command to forget? Would that work—against_ him_?

Damn the dress rehearsal—she is likely to be inaccessible for another _two hours_. I would end it, but she needs that practice.

Yet in all of this, I cannot help but think I am missing some cue. Why did he not, with his tremendous powers, bring the place apart down around my ears? Why did he not lead down a score or two of followers, an army? Why did he not seize Katherine by the wrist and command her home to England? Why is he toying with me? Perhaps, just because he can?

I do not understand.

* * *

Still further excerpts from the same letter from Sir Erich to Sir Charles:

If I recall correctly, Kitty described Madame Giry as 'the most alarmingly Parisian woman'. I did not find her alarming, but I could see what Kitty meant. Madame Giry is a sleek black dove with a red-gold crest, a handsome woman of about forty, dressed with sophistication and taste, her face and figure a pleasing assemblage of curves without excessive flesh. I said no more than the usual pleasantries until the managers had left us alone and she closed the door of her office.

"Now that they have gone, I hope that we may talk freely to one another, Madame."

"About what, M'sieu le Baron?" she inquired.

"About Katherine, of course. About why you would choose to champion a Jewish girl from America, even to the point of taking her into your home. I am very grateful to you, but I cannot help but wonder. Such…goodness of the heart is rare."

"I thank you for that, sir, but you give me too much credit. What I did was only right—and, I must confess, not entirely done out of personal disinterest. " She cast her eyes down, and sat at her desk, indicating that I should take the chair opposite.

I find it very pleasant to have an exchange of wits with an attractive woman, and more so when I am sure she is not going to slip a glass dagger between my ribs.

Mystique may be an infinite variety of women in one, shape-shifter that she is, but she is the purest poison. I have learned my lesson there. Not to mention that she has twice abandoned her newborn babies. She is no more than a female crocodile who lays her eggs, leaves, and, like as not, eats her own hatchlings should she come across them later.

"You will have to explain that intriguing statement, Madame. I do not doubt that it is significant." I slipped into the chair, and smiled at her.

"From earliest childhood." she explained, "my life has been the ballet. I left it for a few years, when I married—and returned to it when I became a widow. I brought my daughter Margaret up to be a dancer. I became the Opera's ballet mistress and choreographer—I am the first woman to be accorded such professional status here. But I have come to it at a time when ballet is not respected or highly regarded. Nine out of ten of the girls are no better than they should be—professionally or morally—and the male danseurs are great swaggering boys, barnyard cocks and worse…My prima ballerina is the worst of them all. I had thought of abandoning my career—and then Katherine Pryde came here and auditioned for me."

"It was at my suggestion that she came here. She had been bitterly disappointed in love."

"Yes, I could tell something had happened to her. It showed. It has been the making of her, artistically. And in other ways, I think…One cannot dance tragedy, until one has known it. Or dance love, if one's heart has never been touched. I cannot fault her technique, she has the intelligence and emotional depth for any role—and then there is some quality about her that I cannot define. She—barely seems to touch the earth, when she dances. If you were to tell me she was a child of the fée, a spirit such as Ariel from Shakespeare's play—I would not disbelieve you."

"And why? Because I know you know one other such. The spirit of this place. The Phantom of the Opera. Erik—in a word. Or a name." I knew I would shock her.

"She never told you!" She leaned over her desk and stared at me with pleading eyes.

"She did. In a letter. I know where she spent her week of illness, Madame, and with who. In fact, I've already been to see him. I wanted to know what sort of man he was, so I made my way down from Box Five. Not all the way. He met me on the stairs."

"And you are alive?" She was compelled to grip the corner of her desk until her knuckles turned white.

"As you can see. I found him to be proud, but not improperly so. Respectful—to a point, at least. I believe Katherine's account of his behavior, after meeting him, and I trust her opinion of his mind. She is quite an intelligent young person herself. She was academically doing work on a collegiate level when she was not even fourteen. I think they are well suited to each other, in fact."

"Even though—even though you know about his powers—and his face?"

"Perhaps I think they are _especially_ so, because of his powers. And she finds him handsome enough. But what I should like to know, Madame, is what _you_ know of him."

"What—what I know? You don't know what you're asking of me…"

I coaxed the story out of her. It was not terribly surprising, for the most part. She thinks he is at least five years younger than she is, probably younger still, although she cannot be sure. He was being exhibited as a freak in a traveling show—she was moved by his plight, freed him, and hid him.

Over the next few years, she gave him what aid she could—and then his powers began to develop. He could not control them; small wonder. Telekinesis, telepathy and pyrokinesis together are an unpredictable combination, and a dangerous one. She was terrified—terrified _for_ him. She thought he was possessed and tried to drag him to a priest. He struck out at her— knocked her down, and disappeared for several years.

He told her, when he returned, that he had been getting an education. A pity it was not at _your_ school, Charles. Over the next decade, he came and went for months, up to a year at a time, to work on commissions, according to him. About five years ago, he came back, apparently for good, and has been living under the Opera Populaire ever since.

Then Katherine came. "I had not thought of him as less than a man," Madame Giry explained, "but he had always kept at such a distance. From everyone. He is an estranged creature, alienated. Not precisely human. If a hand was held out to him in welcome, he would look for a weapon in it. He does not even trust me. But he saw that same quality in Katherine that I did, and he fell in love with her." She paused and took a breath. "I have talked to her about him. Discreetly, you understand."

"Oh, yes."

"She was not reluctant to talk about him. But the _way_ she talks about him! This is, of all things, the most unaccountable. If she were afraid, petrified with terror of him, I would comprehend that. If she were madly in love with him, if she was sick with love of him, I could understand _that. _If she were both at the same time, it would only make sense. Yet when she speaks of him as if he were an utterly _normal_ man whose offer of marriage she is considering, I do not know what to make of it!"

I laughed. I could not help it.

"And now you have come here, and to you, he is just the same! You—you speak of them as well-suited to each other! You went down to his demesnes, and came back, came back alive, without a hole in your memory, and—"

There was a knock on the door. I had been wondering how I might best distract her. I believe the classic way is to kiss a woman, but it seemed a trifle forward, and I would prefer to know that we were the same species before I took such a step.

It was a pretty blonde child, about Katherine's age. "Mother—Oh, I beg your pardon, M'sieu, but Madame is wanted on stage."

"I understand."

"My daughter, Meg Giry." She explained. "Meg, this gentleman is Baron Ware, Katherine's guardian."

"I am honored to make your acquaintance, sir." Meg curtsied beautifully.

"Enchanted, Mademoiselle. Madame, before we part—have you spoken to Katherine about your professional plans for her? I am safe in assuming you have plans, am I not?" She stood up, so naturally, I did so also, and we moved toward the door together."

"Yes, I have—plans, that is, but I have not spoken to her of them, as yet."

"I think that you should, and soon. I would like to be there. We have no time to plan this now, but I will return after lunch, once I have stopped in at my hotel. Might I speak with you later?"

"Certainly, M'sieu."

And that brings us to the present moment. After I post this letter to you, I shall return to the Opera Populaire.

Sincerely yours,

Erich Lensherr

* * *

A/N Hi, folks!

Several people (that's you, **Pickledishkiller**, and you, **Lor, **and **Queen Ame**, and **Hobbit Babe)** noticed that Erik really seems to want trouble with Sir Erich. This is true. The poor guy has just barely gotten the idea in his head that Katherine actually _likes _him, and that's_ after_ he's nursed her through cholera _and_ found they like the same books _and_ both play chess _and_ she stuck up for him with the Daroga.

He's not prepared to trust a stranger yet. Things will get even more interesting, especially since Professor Xavier got the letter Sir Erich wrote on the train, and three people from Xavier House are even now en route to the Opera Populaire to try and avert a catastrophe.

**Thornwitch**: As you can tell, I was already thinking along the same lines, although it's too early to say what will happen. He's attracted; she's intrigued. I first saw Miranda Richardson as Queen Elizabeth in Blackadder, and I adored her. And even though Ian Mckellan's personal notion of a love interest for Gandalf would be Legolas, not Galadriel, the actor is not the character, and this is my story, anyway! Yes, Kitty is now taking singing lessons from Erik on a regular basis, but there hasn't been an occasion to write about them yet.

Thanks for the good word, **JP—**I'll seewhat I can do about Kitty's letters—most of the ones in the story thus far have been 'best behavior' letters—once she has some juicy bits (and there will be juicy bits) to tell Illyana, perhaps it will round her out. She's not all that indifferent to Erik's attractions—who could be? And as for horror and suspense, conflict, drama and action—how about the potential murder of fifteen million people? Hint!

Hi, **Lexy! **I like the Uncanny X-men, and the Ultimate X-Menare great too. I just got a trade paperback of the Ultimate X-Men called Hated and Feared, which is excellent—Mystique is just so, so cold! And if Kurt really does stick with the priesthood, what a _waste!_ I like the old stuff they did in the eighties, by Claremont and Byrne. Sometimes I get confused by all the story lines and A/Us in the ones they have going now—and I'm not easily confused! It sucks to be broke, but it's great they even have the X-men in libraries.

Several people have now written to say how surprised they were when they found out they like my story, even though it looks like it should be stupid. You have no idea how happy that makes me. I knew, going in, that a Phantom/X-men crossover sounded dumb, _dumb _**dumb** –but I decided to write it anyway. If there is a trick or a secret, it's that I try to write them as _people_, not as SUPERHEROS. And I like doing research—such as watching Giselle. So, thank you, thank you, thank you! I virtual hug you all!


	12. Intermission: What Kitty isn't telling

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France to Alice Blaire, Hotel , Prague, Bohemia

Dear Alice:

I know I've never written a letter to you before this, but there isn't really anyone else I could confide in—not about this. Auroré wouldn't approve, Kurt is male, Illyana hasn't the experience, and the Professor is out of the question. I don't even want to think about Sir Erich's reaction.

When you visited the Opera House a few weeks ago, (A/n: Re-read chapter 3 for the details.), you gave me some advice on how to manage to avoid getting into trouble—the sort of trouble that only increases over nine months. I told you then that I didn't think I was going to need your advice any time soon. You were skeptical.

You were right. 'Anytime' has come sooner than I thought. Not that I've actually done anything! Not yet, anyway…

There is a man here, to whom I am intensely attracted, and it is all that I can do to keep myself from doing something that I think would regret immensely—that is, over time.

Because I don't want to marry him—not at present. Oh, I know this must be confusing to you, but if I go into great detail about it—if I start dwelling on him—it only makes things worse. He's giving me voice lessons, and I have to keep the upright piano between us at all times. If it weren't there—if I kissed him on the mouth just once, it wouldn't end there. We'd wind up on the piano bench and then on the floor, and not only would I not be resisting, I'd be helping him!

Please don't tell me to go ahead and do it, as long as I have the fresh lemon and a sharp penknife on hand, or else the small sponges and vinegar, because if I once gave way, it wouldn't be just once—or just an affair, if that makes more sense. He would take it as either equivalent to marriage, or excusable only if followed by our marriage shortly thereafter. If I told him I didn't want to marry him after that, he wouldn't believe me.

And if I _did_ manage to convince him I meant that I didn't want to marry him, it would break his heart.

I know it is my body that's doing this—because I can think clearly about why marrying him now is a bad idea, and while I do feel for him, it isn't love, or not the love that leads to forty happy years together, but my body is—very insistent. It wants me to have a baby, it has been wanting me to have a baby for over five years, preparing itself month after month, and being disappointed every time.

It is all biology and instinct. He is big and strong and healthy—and so my body is saying, 'Look, he seems able to fight off predators and kill plenty of game. Your children will be big and strong and healthy too. Go to it!' I know this! Intellectually, I know this, and I'm glad I do, because otherwise I might mistake it for love, and I know what I feel in my heart—it's what I feel somewhat lower that's the problem.

I cannot believe I just wrote that. Oh, Alice, what can I do?

Yours desperately,

Katherine Pryde.

* * *

From Alice Blaire, Hotel, Prague, Bohemia, to Katherine Pryde, Paris France. 

Dear Kitty:

I think that as far as barriers to conception, you could not possibly do better than keeping as large and solid an object as an upright piano between you. Then again, considering your powers, an upright piano might not be enough. Perhaps you should have your lessons at the opposite ends of a concert grand. It might be safer.

Seriously, though. My advice is that you should avoid drinking anything alcoholic when you are alone with him, or likely to be alone with him shortly thereafter. It will only lower your inhibitions, and from the sound of it, you need all the inhibitions you have, and perhaps you might benefit from cultivating a few more.

You might also benefit by meeting other men—not with an eye to anything serious, but merely as a way of seeing whether it is this _particular_ man who affects you so powerfully, or if any man who is sufficiently large, strong, healthy, and presumably able to fight off tigers and kill mammoths, will provoke the same reaction in you.

Finally, let me say, as a slightly more seasoned campaigner in the lists of love, that virginity is not only a physical condition, but a mental one as well, and matters that seem monumental now, can be seen in a much more proportionate perspective afterward.

But do not forget the lemons or vinegar, either.

Your affectionate friend,

Alice Blaire

PS. Is he a good vocal instructor? I could do with one. My current teacher is not working out very well. Besides, I find I have a lot of interest in meeting this 'big, strong and healthy' man….

* * *

A/N: Frustrated by the need to continue this fic, I have taken a momentary breather from the current action to fill you in on what Kitty _isn't_ telling the Professor… 

**Ellen**: Ballet was indeed in a slump at the time I've set this story, post-Romanticism, and before the classic Russian ballet became wildly popular at the beginning of the 20th century. A good history of Swan Lake, including information about ballet of the period in general, can be found online at balletmet, but I can't give the address becauseDocument Manager doesn't accept it.

I absolutely love research—I'm strange that way—and the time frame of Phantom just happens to coincide with that of Sherlock Holmes, who is another of my obsessions, so I already knew a lot about things. Plus, I learned to cook in self-defense, because my mother was just _awful_ at it—she could ruin toll-house cookies.

Let me shout out to my other friends: **Queen Ame, Pickledishkiller, Hobbit babe, lor, Thornwitch, JP Money, and Serena Wolf!**

Soon will continue with plot in progress! Promise!


	13. Enter the XMen!

Editor's Note:

Great efforts have been made to locate any letter Kitty wrote concerning what happened next at the Opera Populaire. Either she wrote none, or none survive.

Erik's Journals are similarly unhelpful—there are several pages missing. It appears, from the state of the book, that he wrote down a full account, and then ripped it out. The ragged edges of the pages remain bound in the book, to tantalize us with what he might have thought, said and done. He seems to have been embarrassed, as this letter, the one document that touches on what occurred, clearly shows.

* * *

Letter from Dr. Jean Grey-Summers, Hotel de, Paris, France, to Scott Summers, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.

Dearest Scott:

I may well be back with you before this letter can make the journey, but it has been such a day! I can't sleep, so I shall write.

Getting here was no problem. No one shot at us—I don't think we were even spotted. At the moment, our plan is to make a more conventional re-entry into England. Although our passports don't have the proper entry stamps at the moment, Kitty's Erik assures us that he can forge us an undetectable replica.

I am calling him Kitty's Erik, because, although it remains to be seen whether she will be Erik's Katherine, (I think she will!) he is certainly and unshakably hers. We have all of us been out to dinner, and I wore my sea-foam green and gold from Liberty's, while Auroré wore her pale bronze charmeuse from Eulalié—and that was heavy ammunition on our parts, you'll agree —and he barely blinked at either of us.

It was Kitty his eyes sought out—but that is getting ahead of myself.

I 'heard' them long before we could see them or hear them with our ears—three tremendously angry Evolved, Sir Erich, Kitty, and an unknown who I could only assume was Erik, all radiating hostility so palpably that sensitives all over Paris must have been getting unaccountably edgy. That made me wonder, because why, of all people, should _Kitty_ have been so furious?

I heard a male voice, unfamiliar to me, but so resonant I knew it must be Erik, say, "If you truly want to escape his parental authority, I have a solution. Marry me immediately. A husband's guardianship supersedes that of a father in any court of law. I give you my word that I would—wait until you."

It was exceedingly convenient that they happened to have chosen to have their contretemps on the rooftop of the Opera.

Kitty cut him off. "That would be going from the frying pan into the fire." she groaned.

Sir Erich snarled, "I think you might find that rather difficult, given that she is an underage Jewish heiress who isn't of French citizenship. Neither the civil authorities nor any religious."

"I think it would be wisest," the Professor told us mentally, as we prepared to make ourselves known, "if we presented ourselves in as non-threatening a manner as we possibly can—even to the point of pretending to need more assistance than we truly do."

"_I'm_ not an heiress!" exclaimed Kitty, in surprise.

"Until and unless I get another heir, yes, you are!" stated Sir Erich.

"Great! I want to be disowned!" she shouted.

They didn't even notice us until we were literally on top of them.

"Hello!" Professor Xavier then addressed the three of them. "Provided that the group of statuary there is sturdy enough, might one of you be so kind as to tether our anchor-ropes to it?"

It was a truly beautiful moment. Three backs stiffened, three heads snapped back, and three jaws dropped simultaneously, as our hot-air balloon emerged from the bank of clouds and fog Auroré had shrouded us in. The light picked out the touches of white each had about them: the white of Sir Erich's hair and shirtfront, Kitty's collar and cuffs—and the half-mask Erik wore, all glowed with the faint radiance of the moon.

"Hello, Charles." said Sir Erich, in that insufferably world-weary way of his, "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Kitty's premiere in _Il Muto_ is tomorrow night." Professor Xavier told him. "We missed her first debut. It would be inexcusable if we missed her second—particularly when she's playing the title role."

"Oh, Professor!" Kitty cried, with profound relief, "I have _never_ been so glad to see you in my life!" She took a rope and began fastening us to a cherub.

"Thank you, Kitty. I also thought it would be wise to be on hand because of something you wrote—that Sir Erich and Monsieur Dantés were rather alike. It struck me that they might be too much alike to get along well at first. I seem to have been correct. Could someone tell me why you three are fighting?"

They all spoke at once.

"He is an ungrateful wretch, and so is she!" began Sir Erich.

"He went and adopted me without my permission!" Kitty burst out.

"How many_ other_ people have you been writing to?" Erik asked of her, heatedly.

Auroré chose that moment to spiral down out of the sky and land right next to him. She then further threw him off balance by taking his hand in both of hers, looked deeply into his eyes, and said, "Thank you for saving Kitty's life. Had she died here, alone and among strangers, it would have left great wounds and unbearable sorrows in our hearts. I am Auroré Munro. I hope you will call me Auroré."

Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. He looked very surprised at that. "Forgive me—but why are you sticky?" she immediately asked.

"Because Katherine saw fit to throw a carafe of lemonade over me." Erik said with asperity.

"It was necessary!" she defended herself. "That piano would have left a very big hole in the wall, and I _need_ that piano. I _rely_ on it."

"For what?" he asked, reasonably.

"For—never mind! Professor, how can Sir Erich have adopted me? Did you know about this?"

Sir Erich was hauling the balloon basket down, and muttering that old quote about the serpent's tooth and the thankless child.

"It seems to me," said the Professor, as I helped unbuckle the basket's side door, "that we would all profit by a good long talk about all of these things." The door swung open, and for the first time, Erik realized that the Professor was physically incapacitated.

_Yes_, I thought. _See?_ _We are only two attractive women, and an older man in a wheelchair._ We are no threat to you.

Professor Xavier wheeled himself onto the rooftop with a slight bump. He winced exaggeratedly. "Let me add my thanks to Auroré's. I don't permit myself to have favorites among my students; I don't think it's fair. But if I did, Kitty would be one of them." He smiled at Erik, and extended the warmth of his personality, as well as his hand, to him. "Charles Xavier. I'm sure Kitty has told you a great deal about us. By now, you must know as much, or more, about us as we do about you."

Erik shook his hand, his brow furrowing with thought.

I followed the Professor out of the basket. "While professionally, I'm Doctor Grey, and socially, Mrs. Scott Summers, to my friends, I'm Jean. What you did for Kitty makes you one of them. Incidentally, the course of treatment you followed after the diagnosis of cholera is exactly what I would recommend if there is no practicable way of administering fluids intravenously. I thank you, too." I shook his hand as well.

"Ah. Indeed—You are very welcome, but I need no thanks." he said. In the face of our friendliness, his anger had receded, leaving him puzzled, and a little overwhelmed.

I continued, "Has Sir Erich been haughty and overbearing at you? Don't pay it any attention. We never do. He's like that toward all Evolved, and with ordinary humans he's even worse."

"_I_—am _not_ haughty and overbearing at people." denied Sir Erich, haughtily and in an extremely overbearing way. "I was perfectly cordial, and consequentially spent the morning working entirely for his benefit, only to be attacked without provocation—."

Kitty interrupted, "He tried to kill me, the first time we met. And only four short years later, he's adopting me. He makes a _terrible_ first impression—but Erik, you really were misinterpreting practically _everything_—."

The Professor interrupted _her_. "Is there somewhere_ inside_," he emphasized, "that we might talk freely and in private? I am afraid the entire Opera house will be up here at any moment."

"And I, for one, need to wash my hands and face." I contributed, employing a useful euphemism. "Thanks to Auroré, we had nothing but good winds to keep us on course, but we left before dawn and didn't stop along the way. There's some luggage in there…"

"We ought to go indoors," added Auroré. "I cannot keep the rains away for much longer," she lied.

"I—", and Erik paused, "would be honored if you would accompany me—to my home." he finished, resignedly.

**TBC…**

* * *

**A/N: **I believe the first X-Men movie was the first place Jean Grey was given a profession other than simply that of superhero—she became Dr. Jean Grey. I decided to keep that innovation, as it seems sensible. I think that more of the X-men _should_ have paying jobs. Any school that only teaches you how to save the world and not how to pay the rent is a poor school, in my opinion. A few women _were_ in the medical profession at the time, not many— remember Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman? An Evolved doctor who would treat Evolved patients and not get upset at a few physical anomalies is necessary.

Now—to all of you who are reading and not reviewing—don't you know that feedback is addictive? Oh, we fanficcers go into it just thinking we're writing out of love—but then we get hooked, and without reviews, we become sorry sodden lumps. So _say something_. Anything!

Shouting out to my faithful friends:

**SarahBelle: **Welcome aboard! I'm glad you like it. I first started reading the X-men when Magneto was trying to be a better person, and I liked him like that. He and Kitty were bonding for a while, and that inspired the relationship in this story. But he isn't perfect… Kurt is on the way!

**Selena Wolf**— (see—got your name right!) I'm not sure if you got my e-mail or not. I never got a reply—but AOL likes to eat them sometimes. Yes, Kurt **_will_** be blue and furry. He will be swashbuckling and romantic. He will also show Erik how to step out of the shadows, and live in the light of day. And Kitty will call him Fuzzy-Elf!

**Thornwitch: **I'd like to get more readers—but I can't think of another summary that would work better, without confusing people who wander in. Any suggestions? I _guarantee_ you that Kurt and Erik will be crossing swords—literally!

**STIG:** You mentioned a blimp—little did you know, there was going to be a hot-air balloon! Bwahhaha! Close enough? I had that part thought out about a month before I wrote it—what a coincidence! Thanks for the good words…

**Queen Ame:** I'm sorry the last update was so brief. I was having ADD medication issues, no joke. When I'm not on them, or the dosage isn't enough—I can't concentrate enough to write. When the dosage is too strong, I can't sleep, and I go kinda nuts. Result—I don't write. As for whether Kitty wants Erik—the course of true love never did run smooth. (Believe me, from the writer's point of view, I have to work to keep them _out_ of bed!)

**Lydiby**: The muse is back! Have you ever read the **Irene Adler books by Carole Nelson Douglas?** They're wonderful—and Irene is an Opera singer!

**Ellen: **I think I know the one you mean—the Holmes/POTO crossover. In the first chapter, we're introduced to a beautiful, musically gifted woman who is blind. I read that, and groaned, because I could see exactly where the story was going from there…. Have _you_ ever read the **Irene Adler books by Carole Nelson Douglas?**

Can't go without saying **Hi!** to **Pickledishkiller, Hobbit Babe, and Lexi**!


	14. A question for my readers

A question for my readers: Who among you knows what vitally important historic event took place ( or, in terms of the AU this is occurring in, will take place) on April 20th, 1889?

It's going to take place in Branau-am-Inn, Austria. _Hint._

In a family that was known as Schicklgruber. _Hint._

Who among you knows Magneto's history? _Hint._

Because that's where this fic is heading, once Part 2 (which is just barely begun) is over….


	15. An Impromptu Tea Party

**A/N:** To all my readers: a homework assignment. Go out and read the **Irene Adler** series by **Carole Nelson Douglas**. She was an Opera Diva from the Holmes story A_ Scandal In Bohemia_. You will love them.

* * *

Continued from a letter from Jean Grey-Summers to Scott Summers:

It was well over an hour before we reached Erik's inner sanctum, however.

There was a hot air balloon that had to be deflated and concealed, luggage to be moved, an Opera House full of nosy people to avoid, and, most awkward and time consuming of all—a man in an enormous wheelchair made mostly of mahogany and wrought iron, with bottle-green wool velvet upholstery— which, as we know all too well, weighs about two hundred pounds, not including the Professor. It is difficult enough to maneuver in an ordinary building's corridors, much less through the secret passages Erik used to get around the Opera Populaire. I will not say anything about the stairs.

In the end, Erik carried Professor Xavier. Sir Erich and I managed the wheelchair, once Erik partially disassembled it, using a wallet-sized tool kit he had in his inner jacket pocket. I moved the mahogany half, and of course Sir Erich took the wrought iron part.

Kitty, in the meantime, was assisting Auroré, whose claustro-phobia became worse the further underground we went.

One good thing about the long and difficult process was that it allowed our three combative friends to cool down, although they were still inclined to snap at each other.

Eventually we did reach the fifth subbasement, and were conducted through a passageway to the back entrance of Erik's home—the mysterious mirrored room.

Upon entering the Chamber of Confusions that Kitty described in her letter, the Professor asked, "Might we pause for one moment?", and Erik halted.

We looked about that shadowy room which seemed to stretch on for an infinite space all around us, and Professor Xavier said, thoughtfully, "Yes—I see what you meant, Kitty. This is hardly the time to ask for a demonstration, but I would very much like to see it in operation…Could I commission you to build one for me, at Xavier House?"

Erik tensed up, visibly. "What use would you have for it?" he asked, abruptly.

"I would use it as a teaching device. It would help train my students to defend themselves against unexpected threats in a hostile environment. The mirrors might have to be made especially strong—perhaps of mirror-polished steel, several inches thick, rather than glass… Why do you ask?"

Erik deliberated a moment, then said, giving me the impression that he chose his words with great care, "I have built three such chambers—two of them here, and one of them…elsewhere. The one I built elsewhere was the first. I built it for someone as an amusement, to amaze and inspire wonder—but the person for whom it was built tired of that aspect of its possibilities, and turned it into a torture chamber. I built the two here to defend myself, by confusing and disorienting any unwelcome intruders. I never thought of it as having the potential to educate, or as having any practical application. Why should the same room be such a different place to different people?"

"It _is_ a room full of mirrors," observed the Professor, "and therefore what one sees in it is a reflection of one's self. The person for whom you built the first was full of cruelty, and used it to inflict horrors. A society beauty might see it as a temple to her own perfections, a surgeon as an operating room meant to optimize the available light."

"I like it," said Auroré suddenly. "Of all the human places I have been in, this one seems the most like the exterior world, which goes on and does not end. I know in my head that it is an enclosed space, but it does not seem to entrap me like any building would."

"And I…" Erik let his sentence trail off. I wasn't reading his thoughts, but I knew them al the same. If Professor Xavier, who was first and foremost a teacher, saw it as a teaching tool, and the first client as a torture chamber, what did that say of Erik, who began by seeing it as a source of wonder and amazement, and now used it to defend himself through confusion and disorientation?

It said he had been disillusioned, that he was defensive, that he himself was lost and bewildered. Well, who has not?

"I could begin plans for such a room," said Erik, tentatively, "but you and I would need to discuss it in detail, first."

"I would be glad to." said the Professor. "We will be spending several days in Paris," he continued, as Erik bore him from the Chamber into his home proper, "because in order to get Jean and Auroré to bring me, I promised them some time to go sightseeing and do some shopping, and if I renege, I will be facing an outright mutiny."

"Oh, no." I blithely informed him. "We just wouldn't listen, that's all. And without our help, he's stuck."

"Sad but true," admitted Professor Xavier, "yet—Oh!"

Erik had lit, with his pyrokinesis, all the candles in his house simultaneously, and the effect was remarkable. Auroré and I made similar noises of appreciation, as Erik carried Professor Xavier over to a sofa and set him down with great care.

"Will you be comfortable here,—sir?" he asked him.

"Yes, thank you." responded the Professor.

"Please—make yourselves at home," said our host, and he said those correct and conventional words as if they were new to his mouth—something he knew should be said under the circumstances, yet which he had never been called on to say before. I knew then that Kitty was right about him, and how he had learned what he knew.

"I am going to leave you for a moment," Erik continued, "the lemonade, you understand." He meant that he wanted to wash up and change, and no wonder.

"I_ am_ sorry about the lemonade," said Kitty, contritely. "I hope your clothes aren't ruined."

"I think a sponging will take care of it," he told her. "Might I offer all of you a cup of tea?" he inquired of us, uncertainly.

"Yes, thank you." answered the Professor.

"Tea would be most welcome," added Auroré.

I added my agreement. Sir Erich chose not to respond. He chose to sulk in silence.

"I can get that started," Kitty volunteered, and she disappeared in one direction while Erik disappeared in another.

We were left to share an awkward silence. It was all Sir Erich's fault—he sat there in his armchair and glowered. "Where are the three of you staying?" he demanded.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Professor Xavier replied. "We left in a great hurry. The letter you posted from Dover wasn't read until quite late last night. Our original plan was to take the train tomorrow at seven in the morning."

"I'll send a message to my hotel. They'll find room for you." stated Sir Erich, flatly.

"I would be much obliged to you." was the Professor's mild response.

"I have a private dining room. Of course you will be my guests tonight—Katherine, Madame Giry and her daughter are already invited. If Erik chooses to, _he_ can join us as well." It was probably as close to a statement of guilt as Sir Erich was likely to make. He wanted to make amends, and he found that easiest to do through being generous and hospitable.

"What made you think you had to come rushing over here, anyway?" burst out of Sir Erich.

"Over thirty years close acquaintance with you." Professor Xavier answered. "Your letter fairly oozed righteous indignation. You can't say I was wrong, as the three of you seemed ready to rend each other limb from limb. Tell me, Erich, did you take the trouble to thank that young man for the kindness and attentive care he gave Kitty, or did you lay into him as to what were his intentions toward her?"

Sir Erich winced. "I greeted him warmly and extended the hand of friendship to him," he insisted. "You will be able to read all about it when you get home, because I wrote you quite a long letter about it, and posted it not two hours ago."

"I will enjoy it all the more for knowing how it all came out," the Professor assured him.

Kitty reappeared, bearing a tray of china. She unloaded plates, cups and saucers onto the table before us, and said, "This is going to take me more than one trip."

She left us, only to reappear immediately. "I am not the lady of the house!" she asserted, leveling a finger at us. "I just happen to know where the tea things are kept, so no shooting knowing glances at each other while I'm gone—or saying the lady doth protest too much!"

"I am sure none of us assumes you have made a lifetime commitment merely because you know where to look for Erik's sugar bowl. On the other hand, if you have an intimate familiarity with his stock of lemons, that's another story—what did I say? I was just trying to be amusing!" I asked, because Kitty had gasped, turned bright pink, and hurried out of the room.

(E/N: Those who want to understand the significance of lemons have only to ask for the description of Victorian-era contraceptive techniques from Chapter 3.)

"I will tell you later," soothed Auroré. "Although I am surprised you do not know already."

"Do you have tickets for the show?" asked Sir Erich.

"Not yet. That's something we'll have to see to, before we go to the hotel." replied the Professor.

"I have an entire box. It would be easy to move the chairs so yours would fit in the front, and there's enough space for at least four—if not more."

It was an olive branch of sorts, like the invitation to dinner and the offered assistance in finding us rooms, and it would have been churlish to refuse.

Kitty put in another appearance, this time bearing on her tray a silver teapot, accompanied by the cream-jug, sugar bowl, tea-strainer, and a plate of sweet biscuits, and was placing them on the table when Erik returned, in clean clothing, with a freshly scrubbed face and slightly damp hair.

We had another awkward pause while our host and erstwhile hostess suffered a moment of paralysis over the question of whose proper duty it was to pour the tea. Men, of course, do not pour, but if Kitty should do so it would be an unequivocal statement of her position under his roof.

If that were to go on for much longer, the tea would be steeped until it was undrinkable and bitter, if not ice cold as well, so I took pity on them, and said, "As a single gentleman without a female relative to act as your hostess, etiquette dictates that you ask the senior lady guest present to pour. Auroré and I are of the same age, but I am married, which is presumed to mature a woman. I would be honored to assist you."

I picked up the pot. "One lump or two?" I asked the Professor.

"Thank you." Erik said, stiffly.

I continued to talk as I passed cups around. "My governess drilled us mercilessly on etiquette and deportment, but neglected nearly every other aspect of our educations. Were it not for Professor Xavier's remedial lessons, I would be as empty headed as most young women of my age and station. I came under the Professor's tutelage under tragic circumstances—as indeed, have all of us, in our individual ways."

Erik was making an effort to keep up his part of the conversation. I appreciated that; he was willing. "How so?" he inquired politely.

"My telepathy awoke the day my best friend died in my arms. I experienced her death as vividly as if it were my own. It had a traumatic effect on me; I was not well for a long time afterwards, until the Professor broke through the walls I had put around me." I thought that telling my own story would help Erik to relax, and it did seem to work.

"That's terrible." he said.

"Yes. It was." I fixed my own cup, and sat back.

Auroré took up the conversation. "Whereas I came to his attention when I picked his pocket," she reminisced. "It was on a crowded Cairo street. I was barely fourteen, and I had neither a family nor a home."

"Cairo!" Erik exclaimed. "Is it possible that I saw you there, many years ago? I traveled extensively, when I was younger. One day, in Cairo, I saw a religious procession for a cult transplanted from India. The central figure in that procession was a girl-child they called 'The Living Goddess'—she was being borne on an open litter, all hung about with flower garlands. The girl herself was dressed in the richest silks and brocades, and bedecked with jewels until she could not move for the weight of them all. Although I thought it was a silk wig, she had hair like yours, pure white and flowing."

"Yes, that was I." she replied. "The Living Goddess of the Temple of the Benevolent Rains—an irony. I could have brought them more rain than they ever prayed for, but not when I was their Goddess. They took me in when my parents were killed in an earthquake. I was only a few months old. That is where I get my fear of being enclosed, of being buried—for I was buried alive with them. The temple took me in, and declared me a goddess. I was cosseted and petted and cared for."

"I see. You were, and are, very beautiful—." he said

"Thank you."

"Forgive me, but at the time, I thought your situation was little better than that of a circus freak—only you were on exhibition for being freakishly beautiful." he finished.

"No, you are correct. It was for my beauty, and not for any spiritual reason, nor any other quality about me, except my youth. Do you know what happens to Living Goddesses—why they are always girl-_children_?" She emphasized the last word.

"No. I don't." Erik answered.

"When the Living Goddess reaches the age when she is no longer a child—when her blood answers the call of the moon every month—she is thrown out onto the streets. Thus it was with me. First I starved, then I stole—and then old Ahmed took me on as an apprentice thief. I was spared the degradation of a brothel for the same reason I had no prospect of marriage—the former Goddess is untouchable. She is too holy, and the gods will curse any man who defiles her. But I survived, and one day, my path and the Professor's crossed."

**TBC….**

* * *

**A/N:** The answer to the question I asked in my last update will become more and more significant as this story continues. I wanted to be sure people would know what I was getting at.

Yes, April 20, 1889 was (will be, for them) Hitler's birthday. In this AU, Evolved will be among the racial/ethnic/lifestyle groups targeted for extermination. The only one who is young enough to see it happen is Kitty, although she will be an old woman when it comes. This is important. Remember it; there may be another quiz later on.

Magneto, in the Marvel universe, is a Holocaust survivor. (as seen in the opening scenes of the first movie) Clearly Sir Erich cannot be, as it hasn't happened yet, but he is a survivor of another deadly Anti-Semitic outbreak, as we will learn in the next chapter of this fic.

**And virtual chocolate mousse to the people who got the answers right: Rosie the cat, Lexi, SperryDee, Dramaswimer, and Anonymous! **

**Shouting out to Baby-Vixen—**aww! Can I adopt you?

**Hikari-no-tsubasa**:--but did you finish the story? (looks at you with big puppy-dog eyes.)

Hello to **Queen Ame—**so what musical are you doing? Hope it's going well…

**Lydiby**: Oh! Oh! I **love** Mary Russell. I **am** Mary Russell! I was simultaneously happy and furious when I read the first one, because Laurie R. King had said absolutely everything I ever wanted to write about being a 17 year old female apprentice to Holmes. Furious, because I would never get to write my book, but happy because I got to read it. Go read the Irene Adler Books, you'll love them.

**Pickledishkiller:** Luv you too. I share my virtual chocolate mousse. It doesn't get any better than that.


	16. The Locust

A/N: This Story has been nominated for the POTO Reader's Choice PhanPhic Awards in the category of Crossovers! After 5/17, voting will begin! Be there! Virtual Chocolate Mousse to all who vote for me! It's over on freewebs dot com/phanphicawards

* * *

The Locust

From the Journals of Erik:

The worst part about the lemonade was the way it made the mask itch. At least none had gotten into my eye—I would have been forced to remove it in public to deal with the problem. Lemon juice on a paper cut is bad enough—lemon juice, however diluted, in an eye would be a brief agony.

I was glad of an excuse to get away from all those people, if only briefly. I did not want them there. My instincts were playing havoc with me. I, the Opera Ghost, who felt his safety was endangered merely by admitting Madame Giry and the Daroga, now had four strangers whose motives were suspect, right there, in my house. Not only were they in my home, I had led them there—not only led them, aided them over my threshold.

Now I would have to deal with the consequences.

I had lied when I told Katherine I had not thought of a use for the barrels of gunpowder stored in my house. They were my last resort, for I had decided long ago that I would not be taken alive, to be studied, dissected, incarcerated, or executed.

It would not be necessary to wire all the barrels for detonation; one or two would suffice. The chain reaction would take over from there…

The switch for electrical circuit slumbered in a box permanently affixed to the mantelpiece in my room. I opened the box with the key I keep on my watch chain. The trigger was a little bronze figurine of a locust.

I had intended it to be a locust; the wax model that I carved and used to cast the bronze piece had been a locust, but the finished work was a grasshopper, instead. There is not much difference between the two insects, visually, but the locust is the ravager and destroyer of crops, whereas the grasshopper is hardly more than a pest.

All I had to do was turn it. I could use my hand. I could use my telekinesis. I didn't even have to touch it. A ninety degree turn, and then the grasshopper would hop…

We would all hop, and the Opera House as well…

It would be so simple, so easy, and so soon over.

It was the clear and obvious choice.

Turn the grasshopper, and I would not have to find myself another bolt-hole, another home. I would never have to endure it as they took Katherine away, as surely they would. I would never have to hear her say, _I'm sorry, but I can't marry you. I want to marry-----_whoever. There would never be a hole wrenched in my life, in my heart, by the loss of her.

So why was I _not_ doing so?

I took off my mask and stripped to the waist. Once in my bathroom, I drew a basin of cold water and started to wash. I did not want to die while I was uncomfortable and sticky.

Such a simple thing to do—a little flick of the wrist, the grasshopper would have done its work, and then—oblivion, if I was lucky.

I didn't want to do it. I was being forced to do it…

But by whom?

I toweled myself dry. I could turn it later. I certainly could never _un_turn it once it was turned.

I suppose I was still trying to catch up with myself. Katherine was _not_ mad, her friends were not figments of her imagination, they were real—and they were in my home.

I wished I had paid better attention to what she had told me about them.

Was it Sir Erich who was pushing me to this extreme? He had been overbearing, it was true—but Dr. Grey—Mrs. Summers—_Jean_ had essentially said not to take him seriously, and over the past hour, he had gone from seeming like a threat to seeming more like a older man, verging on elderly, who was having a long day.

Auroré, who shook with fear in the more confined areas of my domain, and clung to Katherine's hand as she descended underground—was she the threat? No, and how cruel would it be to kill a lovely woman, with a heart generous enough to greet _me_ as a friend, on sight,—and not only to kill her, but to do it in the way that she obviously feared more than any other?

That was the Khanum's sort of game.

Jean had also claimed me as a friend, although she had not demonstrated it as warmly as had Auroré. I had now been kissed by two women, even if it was not on the lips. An embarrassment of riches.

That left Professor Xavier—who had educated Katherine, who ran an entire school full of students like Jean and Auroré and Katherine…

And like me.

I combed my hair, and put on a clean shirt.

Could it really be true that to these people, among these people, I was utterly normal?

I remembered what Katherine had said when first she saw my face_. "If you came down to breakfast at Xavier House, just as you are, the only thing anyone would say is, 'Good morning, Erik. Would you care for some coffee?' Although they might offer you kippers as well…"_

I would like to wake up one morning in a place where I could go down to breakfast without my mask, to be greeted and offered coffee, as if I were like anyone else. I would even eat the kippers. I would like that very much indeed.

As I chose a fresh waistcoat, I could perceive a great knot of tension building in my chest, though I didn't know quite why.

If the school was real…

_Which it was._

If these people were as inclined to like me as they seemed…

_Which they might be._

If I was, by their standards, utterly normal, a man like other men…

_Which I might be._

If it was true…

I had to find out. I had to put them to the test.

* * *

Excerpt from a letter from Jean Grey-Summers to Scott Summers.

"The Professor found me a place to live through the British Consulate, and a few years later, brought me to Xavier House. I have been there ever since. I have a home there; I have family there—they are my brothers and sisters, as much as if they were born so." finished Auroré.

"Forgive me," Erik interrupted. "I have been listening, but there is something I must do, now, before—", Instead of finishing the sentence, he took a deep breath, put both hands up to his face, and removed his mask. Then he looked at each of us in turn, visibly bracing himself against the reaction he feared—that we would look at him with disgust, abhorrence, and revulsion.

I have to say that Kitty gave a very accurate, not to mention compelling, description of him in her letter.

Someone had to break the silence, so I said, "My governess's etiquette lessons are completely unequal to this situation, but I think it's a great compliment that you should feel comfortable enough with us to do that."

"You see?" added Kitty, who sounded remarkably cheerful (and hopeful) at this development. "I _told_ you."

"You could not find a group of people less inclined to scream and take fright, than we are," said the Professor, in his softest tones. "If anything, yours is one of the less extreme outward manifestations of the Evolved state. You really ought to see one of our school photograph albums."

"If you think you are ugly, you are only clinging to the aesthetic ideals of an inferior species," lectured Sir Erich. "Know who you are, be proud of what you are, and go masked or unmasked as you choose."

"You're turning very pale." observed Auroré. "I think you are breathing too fast. Do you feel dizzy?"

Erik had indeed gotten a little over-oxygenated. Once he was recovered, he said, incredulously, "You mean it. You genuinely mean it. _All_ of you mean it." He had reached out to touch our minds, to see for himself, of course. I had felt it.

"Yes," Professor Xavier confirmed. "We do. I hope the three of you ( meaning Erik, Sir Erich, and Kitty) will forgive me if I say that the entire situation, as it was on the roof when we arrived, could have been averted had you only talked about what was bothering you, rather than getting worked up over it.

"It seems to have been a willful misunderstanding of Sir Erich's rather clumsy effort to tell you," the Professor said to Erik, "that you made a good impression on him, and to tell you," he turned to Kitty, "that he cares about you very deeply."

"I do not see that I was particularly clumsy about it." Sir Erich defended himself, "although I had not meant to break the news about the adoption in quite that manner. I had meant to tell you privately, some time tomorrow. I—am sorry." he surprised us by saying to her, and to Erik, "I apologize to you as well. I would have taken it amiss if someone had intruded upon me in that fashion. I should not have done so."

"Thank you," said Erik, after a bemused moment of silence. "I accept your apology."

"And my hand?" Sir Erich extended it to Erik, who shook it.

Kitty's face had taken on a mulish expression.

"I think perhaps a further explanation to Kitty is in order." the Professor prompted.

"What do you want of me, blood?" snapped Sir Erich.

"It seems to me that Jean and Auroré have set an excellent example by telling the stories of their lives, however briefly. Perhaps you might follow them?"

"Very well," Sir Erich said, with reluctance.

**TBC…and soon!**

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry to have gone so long without an update—I've been working on another fic, also a POTO, called If Music Be The Food of Love (Shameless self promotion) But I have not left this one behind.

To answer some questions—Yes, Logan will appear in Part 3 of this story—we're well into Part 2 at this point. He will have claws—whether they will be adamantium or not depends on whether or not I can come up with a reasonable explanation for them in the time period in which this takes place.

Kurt will appear in the last chapters of part 2. When will that be? You'll know it when he turns up.

Hello to all my faithful and patient readers! **Queen Ame**, you'll have to wait and see what part Hitler has to play in this story.

Thanks, **Sarahbelle,** your enthusiasm is highly contagious!

Hi to **Hobbit Babe, Selenawolfe, **and **Pickledishkiller! **Thanks for hanging in there!

**Baby Vixen**—well, I'm mom to two orange tiger cats, Boo and Tater. They might like a vixen in the family…


	17. Sir Erich's Story

Excerpt of a letter from Jean Grey-Summers to Scott Summers:

"To even begin to tell you about my life," Sir Erich shifted in his seat, "I must tell you about the city of Frankfurt, in Germany, where I was born, and more specifically, about the Judengasse. It means 'Jews' Alley'. It was a single narrow street, lined with houses, and it was the only area of Frankfurt where Jews were permitted to reside—and even then, only on sufferance. It had been established some five centuries before. It was only ever intended to house perhaps a thousand people, but when I was born, over three times that many lived there, crammed in cheek-to-jowl.

"We were locked in at night, and during the day on every Sunday and every Christian Holy Day—as if we were animals in a single overcrowded cage. You can imagine how devastating disease and fire were, under such conditions.

"We were not _people_—we were Jews. We could only practice a handful of professions. We were made to wear yellow rings on our clothing to identify ourselves. Only a certain number of marriages among Jews were permitted per year, lest we become too numerous.

"It was not until 1864—not even a quarter of a century ago, that Jews were granted the rights of full citizenship in Frankfurt, despite the many generations who lived and worked and contributed to the society over the centuries.

"In such a closely knit community, everyone knows each other—everyone is related to each other. Kitty and I are related, as a matter of fact—cousins of some degree or other. Second or third, once removed, or perhaps twice. Her paternal grandfather's mother was my father's sister, if I recall correctly.

"It was in the Judengasse that I was born, and lived until I was twenty-three. I was the eldest of four; I had a brother and two sisters. We lost our father when I was twelve. I was there when they brought him home. He had an errand to run outside of the Alley, in the rougher part of town. It was an incident like one of those you have experienced here, Kitty—."

"Incidents, Kitty?" asked the Professor.

"Um. Yes. I'll tell you later." she winced.

"So you don't tell him everything…It was an incident that might have been no more than a casual occurrence. A group of young ruffians and lay-a-bouts began to harass him. One of them picked up a stone, and threw it at him. By chance, it struck him on the temple—the thinnest and most fragile part of the skull—and it killed him. His killer was no more than four or five years older than I was.

"Times were hard for us, that first year after he died—of course it was terrible on a personal level, but as a family we suffered deprivation and poverty. My father's mother lived with the four of us, and our mother took in washing.

"Things got better once I began to come into my powers—although I didn't know them for what they were, at the time. Do you know what I did to help support my family? I became a muckraker. Not in the journalistic sense, but literally. I raked through muck, through drains and sewage, to find anything of value that might have been lost or thrown away. I was very good at it because I could sense where something metallic was concealed. After a while, I learned to distinguish between the different types of metal—if the something I sought was a rusty nail or a silver spoon. Eventually, I learned how to call it to my hand. I was very successful at my trade.

"Successful enough that I could afford to get married. Her name was Magda. She was seventeen and I was nineteen when we married—that was normal, in our community. I had known her all my life. She—you might not have called her lovely, but I found her so. Perhaps it's only the rosy memories of a man who is getting old, but it seemed as if we had what all the world searches for—true love and happiness within our marriage. We still lived with my family. We couldn't afford not to! Three thousand souls crammed in together… It worked, though. She got along with my mother, she was a sister to my sisters. About a year after our marriage, we had a child. My daughter, Anya. She was—a joy.

"We were doing so well financially, that three years later, I had begun to further my education. It only made sense for me to study metallurgy and the sciences. The university admitted me despite my race, and two days a week, I dressed in my best clothes, after I washed and scrubbed any trace of muck from myself, so that even the most acute nose wouldn't have smelled it, and went off to classes.

"One day, I stayed so late, talking with one of my professors, that it began to grow dark. I couldn't possibly have made it back before the Judengasse gates were locked for the night, so my teacher generously offered to let me stay with him. I woke in the middle of the night to the cries of 'Fire!', and—there was a sullen orange glow over the Alley.

"I ran across Frankfurt. I was desperate. I reached the gate nearest to my home—and ripped it apart with my powers. I could have sworn I heard my daughter screaming.

"It is worth mentioning that only that morning, Magda had told me we were going to bring our second child into the world.

"Flying metal from that gate killed three people. When they came to take hold of me for those deaths—while I stood there, among the ashes of all the people in the world that I loved, mother, sisters, brother, wife and child—I lost control of my powers.

"I don't know how many of them I killed. I don't know if they were Jews or Gentiles. I wasn't entirely sane for a long time after that.

"Over the next twenty years, I kept busy. I made a great deal of money, and then doubled it, quadrupled it. I learned from Darwin what I was—what we are. I met Charles, here—and eventually forged a new purpose in life: to ensure the future of the Evolved—to see to it that we do not become as subjugated as my other race…

"For depend upon it, the Evolved will be even less tolerated than the Jews. They will want to do more than control us—they will want to obliterate us. I will not let that happen in my lifetime.

"Charles and I agree that must not be allowed to happen. We disagree on how we ought to prevent it. Charles is a peace-maker, a negotiator—."

"Guilty as charged." commented Professor Xavier.

"He would have us show the Sapient how useful we can be, how they will benefit from having us among them. I believe peace cannot come about between our kind and theirs until we are the ones in power. People can accept it when their superiors rule them—they will never agree to hire them out like day-laborers, to perform miracles on demand."

"I'm not about to get into this again—not now, at any rate." remarked the Professor, mildly.

"But one area where we are completely in agreement is the need to protect, educate, and train the young Exalted who come in greater numbers every year. To that end, I adopted Kitty."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not following you." Kitty said. "You _did_ try to kill me, the first time we met."

"I have been profoundly changed ever since." Sir Erich said. "Because when I looked at you, lying there unconscious, I saw Anya. Never mind that you were ten years older than she ever lived to be. I was shocked by what I had done. I had become someone I did not recognize. I gathered you up in my arm, and wept for the first time in years. Can you forgive me?"

"For that? I already did, really." she replied. "I had noticed that you tend to act paternally toward me, but—the adoption came out of nowhere."

"Not from my point of view. I—kept an eye on you, over the past five years. I watched your progress, your academic development—tracked your background. After last winter—."

"Sir Erich spent five months at Xavier House, last fall and winter, recuperating." I explained for Erik's benefit. "A woman stabbed him with a glass dagger. I had to take out several feet of mangled intestine and sew him back together."

"Please, Jean! Kitty, I realized that I had come to regard you as I would my Anya. I would have been proud if she had become a young woman like you—brave, loyal, intelligent, and trustworthy. So I did—what I did. I didn't want to say anything about it until it was complete—in case it fell through for some reason. That was why I kept it a secret."

Kitty's expression was positively mulish.

Erik coughed, and said, "In my teens, I had a mentor, who I regarded as my father. If he had come to me one day, and said, 'You _are_ my son now, by law. I have adopted you', I would have—it would be a wonderful thing, to be so—wanted."

She looked stricken. "Ah—but you are—I mean, you should have been. I'm not rejecting him, it's just that—my father signed me away. He signed me away, _twice_. I—I've always hoped, always wanted things to go back to the way they were before."

"He signed you over to those who truly valued you and wanted you." said Auroré. "And things never do go back to the way they were before. Even if they could, you could not. Would you want to cut off all the parts of you that no longer fit into your old life, and into the mould they wanted to cast you in? You would not be a dancer, nor a mathematician. You would never have traveled to Japan, and learned the ways of the Ninja. Where would your sword and your fighting skills fit into your old life, or into the life of the wife and mother you would have been?"

"They wouldn't." she sighed. "But how does adopting me fit into the need to educate other Evolved?"

"It's rather complicated." said Sir Erich. "Charles and I—we're not young men. I'm well enough for my age, but Charles was so ill a year and a half ago that he assigned me as alternate guardian for every Evolved underage in his school. Charles isn't married and has no son. Neither do I, but I can leave my money and property where and as I like. I'm a jumped-up parvenu Jew banker.

"Charles, on the other hand, lives on land his family has owned since 1067, and everything he owns in this world is entailed away. Unless he marries (and soon) and gets himself an heir, his closest relative and heir is a dreadful cousin who will turn all of you out of Xavier House before you can sneeze.

"My plan is this: I adopted Kitty, as my principal heir, but much of the property and money will be held under a particular trust—for the school, should it need to relocate. You'll be one of the administrators of that trust. I chose you because you can be trusted, because I would like to see my lands go to someone who is kin to me, in more ways than one—and because I love you as if you were my daughter."

"That's a big responsibility. That's a huge responsibility! But I can understand this—I can even agree with it—where before, it all just seemed so—random. Boom! I've adopted you! I really don't know how I feel about it right now. I don't think I can just say, I love you, out of nowhere."

"I understand." Sir Erich said.

"This is precisely what I was hoping to accomplish," smiled the Professor. "That through explaining what we mean and how we feel, honestly and openly, we might come to a better understanding of each other."

**TBC…again.**

**A/N:** The information about the Judengasse of Frankfurt comes from their website. Any errors are most probably my own. Certain parts of Sir Erich's history are adapted from the extra features they ran with the Classic X-Men reprint series.

Shout outs: **Erik's Girlfriend**—I'm writing as fast as I can!

**Rozzandmaya:** Wow! A review from somebody whose story is on my favorites list. I adore your 'Little Moments That Would Have Changed the Story'. I think that even the most fervent E/C shippers agree that Christine's personality needs to be hauled into the shop for a rebuild—starting with her spine. The X-men were my Charlie's Angels—The X-Women who kicked butt were my role models.

**Queen Ame:** No! Not Abandoned! Yes, I have the DVD. It's in my laptop right now. So happy…

**Ellen**: Whoa! Russia! Tell me more!

**Sarabelle, SperryDee, and SelenaWolfe**: Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	18. The Tea Party Breaks Up

Excerpt from a letter from Jean Grey-Summers to Scott Summers:

"I think it's now Kitty's turn to be more open and honest than she has heretofore been." Professor Xavier continued.

"Me?" she squeaked. "But I have been honest!"

"But you could be more open." suggested the Professor.

She turned bright pink again, and an array of the most fascinating thoughts crossed her mind, so intensely that I couldn't help but hear them. "I—uhh—Help?" She looked around.

"Perhaps I should begin for her." I said. I wasn't sure what she would come out with, otherwise. "From Kitty's letters to us, I can tell you that she is afraid that you have an uncontrollably violent temper. She doesn't believe you would ever hurt her, but she doesn't want to spend her married life in a state of constant tension, having to watch out for the next 'unfortunate incident.' Isn't that true, Kitty?"

"Yes." she admitted.

"I understand exactly what she means, because I turned down an offer of marriage made to me by a man who I found very attractive, for the same reason. Living with one's nerves continually on edge leads one to develop great big bleeding holes in one's stomach."

Erik looked at Kitty. "It's true." she told him. "You nearly strangled the doctor, and I don't know what you would have done to the Daroga. I'm not saying it's the only reason I wouldn't marry you, but it would be a large part of it."

"But there is nothing simpler," he declared. "If you ask it, I will never raise my hand or my voice to another living being—save in self-defense. I will be as gentle as a lamb, and you can do what you like with me—if you will only—care for me."

"I've known some pretty rambunctious lambs," she said. "I don't know how to put this, exactly…"

"Saying what you think and expressing how you feel will ultimately lead to fewer hurt feelings and fewer misunderstandings." urged the Professor.

"I guess—I appreciate what you're offering to do for my sake," she explained, carefully, "but I would much rather you didn't attack people because you don't want to—because in most cases it's wrong, and you know it's wrong—instead of not doing it just because you want to please me. I know that's a lot tougher—but that's what I want."

"Oh." His face took on the expression of a man with a very intricate problem to work out, or else a severe case of indigestion; the symptoms are much the same.

"You see, in telling you about this now," Professor Xavier expounded, "it may be possible for you to learn to control your impulses—rather than that you should wait until June to hear it." He turned to Kitty. "Waiting for him to think of it himself, or waiting for him to read your mind are terribly imprecise ways of communicating your concerns. You should try to voice them more openly in the future."

"I'll try, Professor." she promised.

"The problem is," Erik confessed. "That I don't know how. I don't know where to begin." He sounded very young and very lost as he said it. "May I ask—when you speak about June, when you mentioned Katherine's married life—Would you truly countenance a marriage between us?" He asked it with trepidation; this was yet another mask taken off, in its way.

"If Kitty loves you and wants to marry you, what could we do but give you our blessing?" Auroré answered.

"You may not be the boy next door, exactly, but you're certainly the man who lives a few blocks over, so to speak," I added. "Among the Evolved, you're not a despised outcast—although if you worked at it hard enough, you probably could become one. Instead, you're an attractive, healthy man in the prime of his life, you're very talented, you have an interesting profession and a steady income—which is rare among the Evolved. In other words, you're not merely an eligible bachelor, you're quite the catch. This does not exempt you from learning to control your temper!"

The Professor did not give him a moment to think, but continued our friendly assault on Erik's preconceived notions. "Are you familiar with your Plato? We all of us begin down in the darkest cavern, where, in chains of our own devising, we sit huddled up, enthralled by the shadows flickering on the wall, which, knowing nothing else, we take to be the sum and total of the world. It is only through effort, and no little pain, that we can gain our freedom, move up and out into truth, and stand at last in the light of day. You are simply beginning rather more literally than most of us."

"What we want, most of all," Sir Erich took over, "is Kitty's greatest good and greatest happiness—and yours as well. (And grandchildren,") he added, sotto voce. "You are one of us. You have always been one of us. I only regret that we had not found you sooner."

"In other words," I translated. "You're allowed and encouraged to ask us for help."

He was starting to look a bit pale again. I was afraid we were going to have a reprise of his earlier moment, when he looked into our hearts and knew us to be sincere, but he got his breathing and his emotions under control.

From there—to give him time to compose himself—we turned to the mundane topic of what we were going to do next. Sir Erich repeated his invitation to dinner, and pressed Erik to join us.

I think he would have refused, except that Kitty caught his eye and gave him an appealing look. I heard her whisper, "Please. It's important."

Eventually, we made our way back out to the street by way of the Rue Scribe exit from Erik's home. We went to Sir Erich's hotel, Kitty went home with her ballet mistress, and Erik simply went back inside. After all, we needed to dress.

I have now reached the end of my energy and the end of that impulse to write that made me sit down and pen this to you. I will tell you the rest in person.

All my love,

Your wife,

Jean.

* * *

**A/N:** No shout outs this time! (It's almost midnight and I'm dying) Why are you not getting yourselves over to www. Freewebs dot com slash phanphicawards slash (I know you can figure out how to get there) and VOTE FOR THIS PHIC! Under crossovers!

Thank you.

Gevaisa


	19. The Eighth Guest and the First Kiss

Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris France, to Illyana Rasputin, Xavier House, England.

Dear Illyana;

If you ever feel that your life is becoming just too drearily serene in Yorkshire, you should come and borrow mine for a while. I remember what you said in your last letter very well—'If you don't want Erik, can I have him?'—and, no this does not mean that you would get Erik if you borrowed my life. I refuse to commit myself on Erik one way or another yet, but I can tell you that I don't not want him, if you understand that. I wish I understood it.

I kissed him on the mouth last night. It was lovely. It was also terrifying. Everything is happening too fast! I want to slow this down, but I don't know how…

No doubt you've heard all about how the Professor, Auroré, and Jean came to the rescue, and about the tea party afterward. And how I can call Sir Erich 'Father' now. I wanted the earth to open and swallow me up so I could escape from it! It was like—like holding an autopsy on Sir Erich's, Erik's, and my motivations and feelings. I don't think I've ever felt so naked, not even the time we got caught skinny-dipping in the lake in July two years ago.

So I'll pick up where I left the tea party to go home with Madame Giry and Meg.

"Why, Kitty, where have you been all this time? The dress rehearsal was over hours and hours ago!" exclaimed Meg when I appeared.

"I'm sorry, Meg. Forgive me, Madame, but my—my guardian wanted to speak to me, and then my professor and two of my former instructresses arrived from England, and—well, I'm here now. It got complicated."

"That's all right." said Madame. "Your guardian and your professor have valid claims on your time. I met your guardian while you were in rehearsal. He is—quite a distinguished man."

"He is." We were leaving the Opera House, and Madame Giry asked the doorman to flag down a hansom cab for us, so we could go home to change for dinner. I continued as we got into the cab, "Professor Xavier, Doctor Grey, and Mademoiselle Munro will be joining us for dinner at Sir Erich's hotel."

"_Doctor_ Grey?" asked Meg. "I thought you said the instructor were both ladies."

"They are. Doctor Grey—Jean—is a woman." I answered.

"A _woman _doctor?" Meg's eyes popped.

"You needn't be so shocked." her mother admonished her. "Some women are entering the medical profession these days, just as some women are ballet mistresses."

"But a doctor's a different sort of thing! No insult to you, Mama, I'm very proud of you, but it's not at all the same. Why did she go into the profession? Is she old and ugly and anti-marriage and terrifying?"

"No, she's red-haired, perfectly beautiful, newly married, and one of the nicest people I know." I replied. "Otherwise I'd hate her. And Mademoiselle Munro is Algerian."

"You mean she's black!" Meg's eyes bugged out some more.

"Yes. I thought you should know in advance, so you won't be shocked when you meet her."

"So I'm going to be going out to dinner with a Jewish billionaire, a Professor, a woman doctor, and an Algerian." marveled Meg.

"And I know that you will remember all your manners, and conduct yourself like the well-brought up young lady I know you are." Madame Giry told her, in a very motherly way.

I had to break it to them some time. "Umm—there's going to be another guest at dinner as well."

"Oh?" inquired Madame Giry. "Driver, you can let us off here."

We got out of the cab and went in the house just as I admitted, "Madame, I think Meg needs to be brought in on our secret—because—because Erik is the eight guest."

"You must be joking!" gasped Madame Giry, as Meg asked, "Who's Erik?"

"I'm not joking. Sir Erich invited him, and he accepted."

"Sir Erich—invited him." It was quite clear that Madame Giry was overwhelmed by my piece of news. She sank down on a chair in the front hall.

"Mama!" cried Meg. "Do you have any smelling salts on you, Kitty? I think she's going to faint. Celeste?" she called the maid. "Madame is ill! Who is this Erik, and why does his coming to dinner upset Mama so badly?"

"I'm all right, child! No, I don't need those smelling salts, take them away."

"But who is Erik?" Meg persisted.

I took a deep breath. "Erik—is the Phantom of the Opera."

Meg's jaw dropped. "He's coming to dinner with us?"

"Yes." Meg's face drained of color, and she folded up very slowly and collapsed to the floor.

"Celeste? Bring those smelling salts back. My daughter needs them!"

Meg is bright, so it wasn't long before we had brought her up to date on Erik and how he had looked after me while I was ill. I think that Madame Giry hasn't told everything about her connection to Erik as yet, but time was slipping away, and we had a dinner to go to.

We were then faced with another problem: Exactly what _does_ one wear to dinner when one's dining companions are a Jewish billionaire, a Professor who is also a knight, a woman doctor, a young Algerian woman, and a professional ghost?

"No, Meg, not that one. Or that one either." Meg was holding two dresses in front of her, for her mother to see. Madame Giry had every dinner gown in her closet out, lying on her bed and draped over chairs, while I, the only one who was dressed yet, came in the door.

"Why not, Mama?"

"Because they're both ball gowns. And where did you get that pink one? You shouldn't wear pink, it makes you look insipid."

"I have it on extended loan from Helené."

"And what does that mean—Kitty? Is that what you're going to wear?"

"Yes. I just picked it up from Felixierié's two days ago." It was one of those dresses you buy even though it's too extravagant, even though it'd be a little too fancy for the life you actually lead—I'd ordered it before I got the promotion, and now that I had it, it was just right for the occasion—possibly for the first time in the history of shopping.

"The dressmaker who talked you into it should be shot." Madame Giry pronounced judgment on it.

I didn't like that. I was very proud of it—it's a rich teal silk jacquard, trimmed with gold-embroidered black velvet, and edged with little white ruffles around the neckline and cuffs, making it look a bit Elizabethan. With it, I had put on Sir Erich's pearls.

"What's wrong with it?" I asked, offended.

"What's wrong with it? Meg, go back to your room and look through your closet again. Kitty, it's too outré. It hasn't got a bustle, it hasn't got a train, the skirt is perfectly plain, and why on earth did they put those little puffs on the shoulders?" She plucked a fold of the offending shoulder between her fingers, and made a tsking noise.

"It's going to be the style for this winter. Bustles are out, trains are going out, skirts are going to be simpler, and sleeves are going to be important."

"They've made predictions like that before, and nothing changed. Meg, that's also a ball gown. Do I have to pick your clothes out like I did when you were a child?"

I guessed that Madame Giry was nervous about going out to dinner, too. She was wringing a handkerchief into a rope with her hands, without knowing it.

"Mama, if somebody'd only tell me what the difference was between a ball gown and a dinner gown, I wouldn't have this problem. I've never been to a formal dinner party." said Meg, sensibly.

"Oh. A _ball _gown is made of very light materials, in weight and color. It has bare arms, a low neck, and a wider skirt. Like that one, and like those other two. A_ dinner_ gown has sleeves, because you won't be dancing and getting overheated, a narrower skirt, because you'll be sitting in a chair most of the time, and a neck that's high enough so the waiter doesn't get overwrought and spill soup on you. The materials are supposed to be appropriate to the season." I told her.

"Thanks, Kitty!" she rushed off.

Madame Giry was still giving my dress a hard look. "Don't you have anything more conventional, Kitty?"

"Not one that's appropriate. My other dinner gown has a grease spot on the bosom, and I lost the pin I used to cover it with. I think it got left behind at Frau Levy's."

"I suppose it will have to do. After all, we will be dining among those who are well acquainted with you. What do you think of this dress?" she changed the subject, holding a gown up in front of her. "I want to wear my suite of garnets with it, but I'm not sure they'll go together." She held a necklace of large garnets, like ripe cherries set in a magnificent gold setting, against it.

I looked at the dress. It was a very dark blue-purple. "I think it'll look very rich and dignified." I was surprised, because it wasn't black. I had never seen Madame Giry in anything but black, and the purple suited her hair and skin wonderfully.

"Or this one?" I had the impression that she wasn't asking me because she wanted my opinion so much as she was asking herself out loud. I just happened to be in the room. The second gown was a sort of mother-of-pearl colored satin, with black lace overlaying it.

"I think the garnets would be too strong a color for it." I said. She made a thoughtful sound in her throat.

Meg came back in, wearing a blue plush velvet dress with an ivory bodice embroidered with little blue flowers to match. It had sleeves. "Well, I've been all through my things, and I think this one is—Mama, you're going to wear a color!"

Putting off black and wearing colors again is a woman's way of saying she is giving up mourning for her late husband, and going on with her life, of course, and I wondered if there was a particular reason she had decided to make the change that particular night.

I wondered about it, and wondered about it, and then something surprising occurred to me.

She did say Sir Erich was quite a distinguished gentleman, after all.

"That is an _excellent_ choice, Meg. Now, will both of you leave me to dress in peace, please?"

When she emerged at last, she was wearing the blue-purple, with black onyx and pearl jewelry, so she was sort of half-in, half-out of mourning. She looked wonderful, and we told her so.

In the meantime, I had taken my hair down and put it back up—twice. I was nervous too. Finally, I twisted it into a soft knot high on my head and pinned a strand of artificial ivy twining around it, with a fresh rose.

Celeste had our evening cloaks ready, and so the three of us went back out into the night, to dinner and destiny. On the way, we detoured by the Opera House, to see if Erik wanted a lift. (I had promised that we would.)

When we go there, I got down and went to look for him. I found him right inside the Rue Scribe entrance, pacing back and forth, impeccably dressed and almost terminally nervous. His face was almost as white as his mask.

He greeted me, saying, "Good evening, Kitty! How lovely you look. I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I won't be able to join you this evening. Will you pass on my regrets?"

I could see through that like it was a pane of glass. "What can possibly have come up in the last hour and a half that's more important than coming to dinner with us?" I put on my best pleading expression.

"It's—I—oh,_ hell_!" he swore. "Why can't you want something _easy_, like an enemy who needs killing, or to replace Carlotta as prima donna?"

"Because I can handle those sorts of enemies myself, usually, and I couldn't even come close to filling Carlotta's breastplate. Look, I'm going to tell Madame Giry and Meg to go on to the hotel, and we'll follow them in another cab—which you can flag down while I'm gone."

I told them Erik was suffering from an attack of nerves, and that we would be no more than five minutes behind. Meg made a scoffing sound, and said, "The Opera Ghost is having a nervous attack? He should be in my evening slippers!"

I returned to find that Erik had indeed hailed a cab. We got in. He was breathing fast again. "You really needn't be so nervous. It's only the same people you had tea with a couple of hours ago, plus Madame Giry and Meg. You can't tell me Meg is intimidating you."

"I am not intimidated!" he snapped. "I am merely being cautious. It's a large hotel that employs hundreds of people. Doormen and waiters and Maitre-de-hotels, and so on."

"But you're going there as Sir Erich's guest, so all you have to do is—well, ordinarily I wouldn't tell any one to emulate Sir Erich in dealing with people, but if you act like you know you could buy and sell them for breakfast, you'll do fine. They'll be falling all over themselves to open doors for you."

"I don't know…" he brooded. He looked out the cab window at the night.

I decided to give him a quick kiss on the cheek to bolster his spirits. However, as I was leaning over to kiss him, he turned back to say something, and instead of kissing him on the cheek, my lips landed on his mouth.

He grabbed me again, and we continued kissing. I have to say that it was not the most practiced first kiss I've ever gotten, but the feeling in it made up for that, and anyway, he learned fast. Very fast. I forgot about thinking it wasn't a good idea to kiss him. I forgot about dinner. I forgot about the world.

We were brought back to earth by the cab driver, who turned back to say, "We're here—Oh. Shall I drive you two around the block one time, first?"

I broke the kiss. (I was thinking about that scene from Madame Bovary—you know, the one I didn't understand at first, until the Professor explained that she was committing adultery in the cab with that clerk. It seemed bad to emulate it.)

"No—no, that's all right." I told him, hastily. "This is fine."

We got out, and Erik paid the man while I looked around for Madame Giry and Meg. They were at the top of the stairs. I turned back, to see Erik looking at me with a very tender expression, and a shy new smile on his face. My stomach gave a funny lurch.

I remembered that I had promised the Professor I was going to be more honest and open about what I thought and felt. "Erik—while I like being hugged, and I also like being kissed—I don't like being grabbed. I wish you wouldn't grab me when you want—to express your feelings for me."

"But you _like_ being kissed." he said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper. He has such a lovely mouth…

"Er—yes, and I liked _that_ kiss—but I'm also rather uncomfortable about how fast this is moving—so I think—that kisses should be saved for special occasions. Like before dinner parties, and holidays and birthdays, and other such events."

We were climbing the steps to meet with Madame Giry and Meg, whose eyes were grown to the size of saucers.

"I understand." he said. "I apologize for grabbing you."

"I accept it. Is my hair mussed up?" I asked.

"No, it looks—Is that a rose I sent you?"

"…Yes." I admitted. The rose was one of Erik's, but it suited the dress, my hair, and me.

"You look very fine indeed," and he was using that barely-above-a-whisper voice again. Drat the man. It sends shivers up and down my spine.

"Thank you. Shall we join the others?"

And we did.

There you have it; the story of our first real kiss. I think the word 'rapturous' best describes it.

I will write about the party itself in my next letter—it needs one all to itself.

Your Friend,

Katherine Pryde

* * *

**A/N:** Many books about Victorian Fashion are available. I have several. There was a big shift in styles at that time, and the bustle went out. The "Gibson Girl" look came in—an hourglass figure, with big sleeves and a tiny waist.

Sorry that I took so long to update this fic—the muse was sleeping. Word for word, my other fic gets more reviews, so I'm afraid I tend to concentrate on it. There's a lesson for you—more reviews, more frequent updates!

Thank you to all those who voted for me in the PhanPhic awards—I came in second place!

Shouting out to:

**Senna Wales**: Thank you for your reviews! I saw something you put up on phantomfans—that this fic was your guilty pleasure. I consider that a great compliment. I'm glad you're catching the humor—I was going to list it as humor, until I realized the anti-Semitic material was too heavy.

**Selena Wolf**—I'm sorry I keep spelling your name wrong, I don't know why it always seems to happen. Thank you for your vote.

And thank you also to **Queen Ame**—who requested and got this update within 48 hours—**Sarahbelle, Phantom Raver, Rozzandmaya—**did you get the extra scene?


	20. Another question for my readers

Okay—First of all, I promise I am working hard on the dinner party chapter, but I have another question, and it's easier than the last one.

Should I move this fic over to the X-Men category, renaming it Katherine Pryde and the Opera Ghost?

I have two fics going right now, and the other, If Music Be The Food Of Love, is doing much better in terms of hits and reviews here in the Phantom category. It seems to me that as unique as Dear Professor Xavier is here, perhaps it will be even more unique over among the X-Men fics.

I anxiously await your responses.

Gevaisa


	21. The Dinner Party

From Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Illyana Rasputin, Xavier House, England.

I promised to continue with my tale of that evening, and so I shall.

That kiss seemed to work wonders for Erik. I'm not bragging about any talent I might have for kissing , I'm simply stating how he acted. He climbed the steps of the hotel with brisk vigor, bowed to Madame Giry when she offered him her hand, and was introduced to Meg, who squeaked her reply. When we went in, he dealt with the doormen and the concierge with all the aplomb of a man who did so all the time.

Madame Giry hissed, as we went down the hall, "Whether it's good or it's bad, you mustn't talk about the food!" to Erik as much as to her daughter. "It's rude!"

"Why?" Meg had asked.

"Why? God above, did I raise a savage? If you praise it, that implies you weren't expecting it to be good, and if you complain, it's ingratitude."

"But what if something's really wrong with it?"

"Then tell the waiter, and not your dining companions! Kitty, this will be a—a Kosher meal, will it not, as your guardian is Jewish, too? Is there likely to be anything unusual about it?"

"No. The meats will be well-done, and there won't be any cream sauces. That's all. You'll hardly tell the difference."

We were directed to the private dining room Sir Erich had engaged, and entered to find the Professor, Jean and Auroré enjoying a pre-dinner sherry.

"Ah, good evening!" said the Professor, genially. I performed introductions, and noticed that Meg looked about to burst. Well, the only thing I had forgotten to mention was that Professor Xavier was in a wheelchair, so that meant yet another person in the party was markedly out of the ordinary.

Then Sir Erich arrived, and we sat down to eat.

The food was wonderful, of course. We had things like chicken a la Tangiers, and saffron rice dishes with pistachios and bits of dried apricots.

Jean opened the conversation by smiling, and saying, "With all the excitement before, there's a bit of news we didn't mention. Auroré got a letter in the same post as the one from Sir Erich. I'll let her tell you what it said."

Auroré cast her eyes down. "It was from Prince T'Challa—of Wakanda," she explained to Madame, Meg and Erik. "He has asked me to marry him. I haven't sent him any answer yet. In all truth, I am not sure what my reply should be—so I will tell him I must have some time in which to consider his proposal."

"That is news!" I said. "Has anyone started a page in the book yet?"

"The book in question," explained Professor Xavier, "is a betting book. As there would be wagering on the outcome of various romances whether I approved it or not, I think it better that I should supervise matters. I set limits such as the amount that can be wagered, and I further insist that all wagers must concern only decent and honorable matters—nothing salacious or scandalous."

"You seem to run quite a remarkable school," commented Madame Giry. "Certainly I have been impressed by Katherine's bearing and the extent of her education. What principles guide your courses of study and your academic mission?"

After that, it was easy. Everyone had their share in the conversation—Meg asked Auroré how she met Prince T'Challa, and if she thought she might like being a princess, Sir Erich told Erik that when he was in England to install the Professor's Danger Room, he would appreciate it if Erik stopped by his estate to see what could be done about a new manor house.

"The existing house is a disintegrating pile of rust colored brick. It's less than fifty years old, and already the drafts are terrible and the façade out of date. The interior is furnished throughout in the 'Oriental' style—which means it looks like a tasteless Turkish bath. I am perfectly sincere in this. You are the only possible architect for the job—as you are the only architect who will thoroughly comprehend certain special features which I desire in a new dwelling."

This I took to mean that because Erik was one of the Evolved, Sir Erich could request corridors and spaces which were designed especially to accommodate certain powers—like Kurt's gym set-up.

"I can look at the site." agreed Erik.

"I may not be there for the construction, depending on when you can begin." frowned Sir Erich. "I shall be traveling in Austria for several months in the spring—on business, not pleasure."

"What sort of business?" asked Madame Giry.

"It is a matter of a—legacy." Sir Erich said, choosing his words with care. "I am searching for a particular family by the surname of Hitler—whose youngest son will bear—I mean, who bears the name of Adolph. I am especially anxious to locate them by summer at the very latest."

"What happens then? Does the legacy pass to another?" inquired Madame.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Come April 20th, the interest which I have in this family begins to escalate at an alarming rate."

He said the words as lightly and pleasantly as possible, as if it were as natural as anything—when I knew, as did the Professor, Jean, and Auroré—that he was talking about his plan, his stated intent, to kill a newborn baby—Adolph Hitler, who will otherwise, as we know, grow up to instigate the wholesale slaughter of millions.

"The interest--? Oh, you mean the accumulated interest on the account will grow. I understand." nodded Madame Giry.

"Now, Erich." chided Professor Xavier. "You know it will be many years before—before the fund matures and the penalty becomes unavoidable. There is a great deal of time."

"But by then, you and I may well be dead—and our heirs will be left to pay the price, which by then will be tremendous. I prefer to discharge my obligations in this matter before then—before the penalty grows into the millions. It is far too high a price to pay. I consider this a responsibility, my responsibility."

"Yes, but at what cost to the Hitler family?" countered the Professor. "Have some compassion for them—defer the payment some years."

"The longer I put off what must be done, Charles, the worse I shall sleep at night. I think you do not appreciate the seriousness of this—but then, some millions of this will be mine, and not yours." He meant that not only would the Evolved die—but that several million Jews would die. They were what was Sir Erich's, and not the Professor's.

Madame Giry, sensing the deadly tension that had fallen over them, asked of Sir Erich, tentatively, "Sir Charles is a trustee for this legacy, but it is your duty to see that it is paid out without hardship to your bank and your shareholders?"

"That is a very good way of putting it, Madame." replied Sir Erich.

"And you, sir," she said, turning to Professor Xavier. "You want to see to it that the Hitler family is left as well off as possible."

"You have it." The Professor spread his hands. "As you can see, we are at odds over it. I do not deny the serious nature of my friend's obligation. I merely want him to show some forbearance—which he can do without incurring any injury."

Sir Erich said, in tones which were all ice, "I fear your compassion may be the ruin of us all, Charles."

"There you have the difference between us. You fear, and I hope. Let us talk of matters less controversial, and less weighty—and make them ones in which our friends can share." Professor Xavier turned to Meg.

"Mademoiselle Giry, perhaps you can advise me in a small matter. All of the students at my school must wear uniforms, which are serviceable and practical, but not, I fear, very pretty. Several of my young lady pupils have complained to me about them. Judging by your taste, you are just the person who can suggest to me some changes that can be made."

Meg said, startled, "Oh! Well, all the dancers in training at the opera wear uniforms, too. When I was one of them, I wore the uniform, too. We couldn't make any big changes, but we were allowed to do little things, like make pretty collars and cuffs for our blouses…"

We managed to avoid any more dangerous topics of conversation for the rest of the meal, which was a proper five course meal, with the dessert course laid out on a separate table –rather more elegant than our meals at the school!

Every so often, Erik would look my way, and give me that shy new smile again—the one I first saw on his face after we kissed—and drat it all, it gave me that funny little stomach lurch every single time!

I bid Erik goodbye at the hotel, as he said he was going to make his own way home, so we stole a moment in the dining room.

I said. "Erik—thank you. I'm proud to count several brave men among my friends—but the courage you summoned up for me, for my sake, tonight—leaves them all behind."

"I" He began, and then, I swear it, Illyana, he _blushed_. "I learned it from your lips. Kiss me again, and who knows what further feats I might accomplish?"

"Perhaps I should give you another. On account." I was being playful, and then he stepped forward with this bright, eager hope dawning on his face…

So we wound up having our second kiss, right there by the dessert table. He remembered not to grab me—instead he took my face in his hands, touching me with just his fingertips.

It is clear to me that kissing Erik has entered my repertoire. I wonder how long it will stay there.

Your friend,

Kitty


	22. I am too happy

From the Journals of Erik:

Clearly Galileo was wrong. The Sun revolves around the Earth. Newton, too—water flows uphill. Ice is hot, and fire, cool and wet, for this night I dined with men of learning, power and influence, beautiful women smiled on me, and we spoke of matters both important and trivial. They asked my opinion, sought my attention. I know there was food and wine. I know I ate, drank, talked—and the world did not end.

More than that, Katherine kissed me—twice, and on the mouth.

Those kisses—the first I stole, since it happened inadvertently, but she…did not fight it, nor shrink from it. She returned my passion with ardor that matched it. Wonderful—miraculous!

A line from Richard III: 'I do mistake my person all this while. She finds…myself to be a marvelous proper man.'

Later, then, when she kissed me again…

I had imagined, only so lately as this morning, that persuading her to marry me could be accomplished only after long hard effort, that I would have to assure her that I would wait for her to be ready, for her to be used to me, before I would touch more than her hand.

For all the physical urgings that wrack me and torment me, I could wait, for it would be enough, or almost enough, for a while, to have her here, in my house, where I could see her, hear her, talk to her, take our meals together, until the day came when she told me she was ready to be married as other women are. Merely to be no longer alone—that was important in itself.

But now, to imagine that if Katherine were to consent to be my wife, it would not be because she has no other prospects, no other home, the only two living ghosts in the world huddling together in the basement of an opera house. Instead, she would consent because she wanted to marry me—to be my wife, in every regard.

If such a thing could be…It is too much.

Perhaps I am the one who has gone mad, and in reality I sit in the decaying remains of my home, writing about people who exist nowhere but within the confines of my skull.

Except that I cannot help but wonder what dark secret was hidden within the seemingly harmless exchange between Sir Erich and Professor Xavier—like the bright colors of the American coral snake, which belie the poison it carries in its fangs. Their thoughts were violent, dark and murky. It is reassuring—darkness I am familiar with. I know where I stand.

Again, my thoughts return to Katherine. Before she left, I begged a favor from her—the rose from her hair, although I gave it to her in the first place. It is here before me now—wilted from being out of water and in the heat. That makes no difference to me. I shall dry it and keep it, until it crumples into dust, and if dust is all it remains, I shall treasure it all the same. It is the rose she wore in her hair, when first I kissed her.

I doubt I shall sleep at all tonight. I am too happy.


End file.
